The Handwriting on the Wall
by Kirayoshi
Summary: In the middle of nowhere, Brennan meets an even more insufferable genius than she is. You never know who will turn out to be your savior...Prequel to On This Winter's Night With You. Season 7 spoilers. Chapter 5 up: "The past and the present are within the field of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard question to answer." EDITED Chapter 5 for continuity error
1. The Detective In the Diner

Disclaimers: Fox owns the Bones characters, created by Hart Hansen. BBC owns the Sherlock characters, created by Steven Moffat, based on Arthur Conan Doyle's original blueprints, of course.

Author's Note: I considered posting this as a separate story, but decided instead to make this a prequel to "On This Winter's Night With You". This is an alternate take on how Pelant goes down. This is also what happens when PBS airs the _Sherlock_ finale one week after Fox airs the _Bones_ finale. Seriously, why are there not more Bones/Sherlock crossovers? Spoilers for both "The Reichenbach Fall" and "The Past in the Present".

Rating:T

Summary: You never know who will turn out to be your savior...

The Handwriting On the Wall

Prequel to On This Winter's Night with You

By Kirayoshi

Chapter one;  
The Detective in the Diner

"_It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.__"_  
—_Arthur Conan Doyle, "A Case of Identity"_

Somewhere in Georgia:

He sat quietly at a table toward the back of Bob's Diner, a dingy old café in a wide spot in the road that called itself Hawks Bluff, Georgia, some 75 miles south of Macon. He kept his collar turned up so that no one could see his eyes. Not that there were any patrons to watch him; apart from the pert red-haired waitress and the cook who never ventured out of the grease trap that passed for a kitchen. Since he first arrived in the United States, he seemed to possess the ability to render himself, if not literally, then figuratively invisible. Rarely had anyone spoken more than a sentence to him since his arrival two months ago. Which didn't bother him at all. In his native London he had become too much of a celebrity, thanks to that infernal blog of John's, before it all went so horribly wrong. Indeed, he was enjoying his newfound anonymity.

The bell over the doorframe rang lightly as the front door opened. A woman pushing a baby stroller entered and took her seat at the bar. He glanced at the woman as she removed the silk scarf she wore over her head, revealing a cascade of curly blond locks. "I'll have a grilled cheese sandwich and an iced tea, unsweetened. And is there a gas station nearby? My car ran out about two miles north of here."

"Sure, honey," the waitress answered, "there's a Texaco just two blocks east of here on State Highway 15."

"Thank you," the blond muttered as the waitress scurried off to fill her order. While waiting for her sandwich, the blond divided her time between perusing the contents of a manila folder she was carrying and murmuring endearments to the baby in the stroller. When the waitress arrived with her sandwich and tea she ate pensively, still engrossed in her research. There was something about her, a deep intelligence to be sure, but something more. A haunted quality, a burden she carried reluctantly but steadily. Here, he thought, was someone whose life was on hold and did not know how to resume.

Someone like John.

He quietly studied her as she ate, hiding his face behind a convenient newspaper so as not to arouse her suspicions. Her mannerisms, any telltale behavioral tics, anything that would tell him her story. Once he satisfied his mind regarding the blond stranger he made a decision.

For the first time since he arrived in the States, he decided to strike up a conversation with someone. He threw aside his newspaper and approached the blond.

"Excuse me," he announced his presence stiffly as she finished her tea, "I couldn't help but hear that you required assistance. May I offer you some?"

"Wha-what do you mean?" Her nervous stammer stood out like a neon sign in the darkness. Clearly she feared discovery.

"No reason for concern, Madame," he replied cordially. "I merely overheard you inquire about a petrol station. Where is your car?"

"About two miles south, on State Highway 15."

"Which, by a strange coincidence," he declared, "happens to be the direction I'm heading. And I happen to have a 10-liter canister in my car. So I'll drive you to the station, and then to your vehicle, where you can fill up and go on your merry way."

The blond regarded him dubiously for a moment. "Why should I trust you? I don't even know you?"

"A wise precaution," he agreed. "Perhaps if I introduced myself. Mr. Holmes, at your service."

She looked him over once again; a nest of unruly brown hair, a lean face with cheeks so sharp and saturnine that they could cut paper, a cultured British accent—she guessed north London, perhaps Manchester, eyes hooded and unreadable but smoldering with intelligence. She normally ceded that her partner's ability to read people was superior to her own, but in this instance she decided to trust the stranger.

"Joy," she introduced herself. "Joy Booth. And this is Christine," she added, introducing the baby in the stroller.

"Fine," he announced, placing twenty dollars on her table. "Shall we?" The two walked out of the café and he escorted her to his vehicle, an old but serviceable blue Dodge Neon. Unlocking the passenger-side door Holmes gestured for Joy to enter the car. "Regrettably, I don't have a booster seat for Christine."

"The stroller converts," Joy explained. "I appreciate your assistance, Mr. Holmes."

"My pleasure," he replied. Once she set up Christine's seat and sat next to her in the back, Holmes turned on the ignition and the car sped off to the Texaco.

Once they filled up the gas can (again Holmes insisted on paying) and began the drive back to her car, Holmes idly switched his car radio. "—try to understand / The New York Times effect on man! / Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother / you're Stayin' Alive, Sta-_[click]_" He turned off the radio in disgust and drove in silence for a few more minutes. His passenger remained silent in the backseat, her attention fixed on the infant next to her.

Eventually Holmes glanced at his rearview mirror at his passengers. "Now that there is no fear of discovery," he intoned levelly, "perhaps you should tell me your real name."

Joy raised her head in startlement. "I told you, back at the diner," she insisted, "it's Joy."

"No it isn't," Holmes answered in a calculated tone. "You became a fugitive from the law within the last couple of months, and are traveling under an assumed alias with your daughter, but you are not guilty of the crime of which you are accused. You have kept a low profile, speaking rarely to anyone. You are a scientist of some sort, possibly a forensic anthropologist. You were comfortably well-off before circumstances dictated your flight. You are unmarried but involved in a long-term relationship, presumably with the girl's father. You exercise extensively and are a vegetarian."

Her first instinct was to glance at the car doors; she wanted to grab Christine's car-seat and jump out the car. Assuming she survived the impact with the side of the road, she doubted she could make any distance by foot before every law enforcement officer in a five-mile radius would catch her. She fought the urge to cry as she faced her inevitable fate. _Forgive me, Booth,_ she thought to herself, _I'm so sorry—_

"Oh don't simper, woman," Holmes barked at her. "I'm not going to turn you in or anything of the sort. I am, as I promised, taking you to your car to fill your tank, and where you go from there is not of my interest."

She stammered briefly at Holmes' statement. "But how—how did you—"

"I noticed when you first introduced yourself," Holmes continued rapidly, "that your mouth was shaping itself to make a 'T' sound. I would guess that your real name therefore start with a 'T'; Theresa, Tiffany, Tammy, something like that. You are therefore traveling under an alias. If you had traveled under that name for any length of time or introduced yourself frequently as 'Joy' then the masquerade would be second nature for you. The peroxide in your hair and the fact that you entered the diner with your face partially obscured by a silk scarf indicates that you have no desire to be recognized. I also noticed the folder you were poring over. The heading bore the name 'C. Pelant', whom I must assume is of significant importance to you. The page you happened to be looking over, I couldn't help but recognize as a forensic photograph, presumably of a murder victim. Not a significant leap of logic to suggest that C. Pelant is a person of interest in this case, likely the perpetrator of the crimes you are accused of. Clearly you can read a forensics report, which indicates that you work in that field or similar. Your clothing, though unwashed, is exceptionally well tailored, and your baby stroller looks fairly high-end as well. There is no wedding ring on your finger, nor any marks to indicate that you ever wore one. However you are wearing a charm bracelet with a baby-bottle charm." She instinctively glanced at her wrist, looking at the tell-tale bracelet. "Normally such a piece of jewelry is not purchased by the wearer, but a gift from someone else. I think we can rule out Christine, so that leaves the most obvious choice, a boyfriend, presumably the child's father. The positioning of your hips indicates that you have given birth within the last six months or so, which corresponds with Christine's physical development, but you've clearly shed any excess fat that resulted from your pregnancy, thus I must assume you work out. As for being a vegetarian, despite the fact that, as a fugitive, you would need to husband your resources and could not rely on credit cards, you had ordered the grilled cheese sandwich, which while not the least expensive item on the menu, was the only vegetarian option at that particular bastion of fine cuisine."

She lowered her head in abject defeat, tears slowly leaking out of the corners of her eyes. "Brennan," she whispered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Brennan!" she spoke in a dead, flat voice. "Temperance Brennan! That's my name!"

"Ah, Temperance," he muttered absently. "There's your 'T' sound."

"So at least you can pronounce my name correctly when you turn me into the FBI," she growled acidly. "But I beg you, please, let me take Christine home to her father. At least let me make sure my daughter is protected."

Holmes said nothing, but pulled his car over to the shoulder. Shutting off the gas, he adjusted his rearview mirror so he could more clearly see his back-seat passenger and she could see him. "I think that you had better tell me your story."

Brennan gulped slightly, controlling her tears for the time being. "What, don't you follow the news outlets? They've been running my story for the last two months!"

"I'm sure that is true, Dr. Brennan," Holmes chided, "I prefer to do my own editing. Please, indulge me."

Brennan regarded the steely gray-green eyes that stared back at her in the rear-view mirror. "What you said just now," she commented, "reminded me of Booth."

"Booth," he mused. "Christine's father, I surmise?"

Brennan nodded. "He was—no, is my partner, in every definition of the word. He calls me 'Bones' because I work with bones in the field of forensic anthropology..."

"Yes, very interesting," Holmes interrupted haughtily. "Perhaps if you confined your narrative to the pertinent details."

His tone hit her almost as hard as a slap across the face, and for a brief second a flare of anger surged through her body. _Of all the arrogant, insufferable, insensitive..._she stopped and considered the strange man sitting in the driver's seat. _This must be what people think when they first meet me,_ she thought morosely.

She looked again into his eyes. They appeared haunted, as though by past traumas. Like Booth's eyes, when they first became partners and he described his Cosmic Balance Sheet. Holmes too had fought against the worst of evils. She decided to risk trusting him again.

"Until about three months ago, she started, "I worked with the Medico-Legal lab at Jeffersonian Institute in Washington D. C. as a forensic anthropologist. It was in that capacity that I met and partnered with Seeley Booth, a Federal agent. I, along with my associates at the Jeffersonian, would examine remains and other evidence to aid in investigating murders. About eight months ago, a skull and a set of vertebrae were discovered in American Heritage Museum..."

Within the next ten minutes, as clinically and dispassionately as she could, she related the facts in the case of Christopher Pelant. A self-proclaimed "Hacktivist" who claimed to be making some sort of statement against the Powers That Be, a statement written in the mutilated corpses of his victims. As he was under house arrest for shutting down the Department of Defense's communications network, and constantly wore an ankle monitor, efforts to prove his guilt ultimately proved fruitless. And then it all went to hell, as Pelant framed Brennan for the murder of a friend of hers, Ethan Sawyer.

"And you chose to become a fugitive," Holmes said. Neither a question nor a condemnation, merely a statement.

"I realized that I could not risk arrest," Brennan replied sorrowfully. "Even if acquitted, there was the very real possibility that Christine would be taken away from me, that Booth and I would lose our daughter. I was afraid! Afraid of seeing Christine ground up in the foster care system the way I was! Afraid—afraid that I would never see her again." Her voice faded as she inhaled deeply, clenched her fists, anything to prevent herself from breaking down in a fresh pool of tears.

Holmes turned his eyes away from Brennan and looked down the road ahead of them. "I will take you to your car now, Dr. Brennan." With that he triggered the ignition and pulled out of the shoulder and back onto the road.

The rest of the trip was made in absolute silence, neither passenger nor driver wishing to disturb the melancholy peace that settled between them. A few minutes later, Holmes located the abandoned vehicle by the side of the road and pulled over. "Your car, Dr. Brennan, as promised," he intoned.

He quietly opened the trunk of his car to retrieve the gas canister, while Brennan pulled Christine's stroller out of the car. Without preamble Holmes filled Brennan's tank while Brennan restored the baby-seat to the back seat of her car. "Madame," Holmes addressed her in the same stiffly cordial tone that he used when they first met, "it is my sincere hope that you are able to weather this ordeal."

"Uh, thank you," Brennan nodded, somewhat perplexed. Given that she had just spilled the story of her recent life to a complete stranger, she wasn't sure what she should have expected. Somehow, being summarily dismissed by this infuriating man seemed almost anti-climactic. Without another word she buckled Christine into her carseat, stepped into the driver's seat, put her key in the ignition and pulled away onto the highway for parts unknown.

Holmes watched as Brennan drove away, his stoic posture revealing nothing of the inner tumult of his mind. Temperance Brennan was certainly a puzzle to him. A solitary woman by nature, he sensed, but not by choice. Not for the first time, he recalled his last meaningful conversation with John.

"Alone is what I have," Holmes said flatly. "Alone protects me."

John just shook his head and walked away. "No," he answered, "friends protect people."

And in the end, he proved himself to be both right and wrong. He chose to protect his friends, John, Mrs. Hudson, LeStrade, by allowing the world to believe that he had stepped off the roof of a four-story building rather than live with being disgraced, staging his death and gladly accepting a solitary existence as a non-entity. Only by his seeming suicide could he insure that the assassins Moriarty hired would not kill the only people who would care if he lived or died. In the end, alone did not protect him. But perhaps alone could keep his friends safe.

And now, Temperance Brennan was choosing a solitary life, after having tasted the joys of companionship, of having a loved one to come home to, to share her days, to make love with, to protect the ones that mattered most to her. For her daughter, her lover, her friends, she sacrificed her own happiness.

"No," he whispered to himself, "this cannot stand. You are not me, Temperance Brennan, and I would not wish me on my worst enemy."

Holmes returned to front seat of his car, reached under the passenger side seat and pulled out a laptop computer he kept fully charged. Powering on the computer and waiting for it to boot, he considered the parameters of his research. Pelant. Department of Defense. Jeffersonian. Opening a browser window, he began his search. He read the open reports regarding the Jeffersonian's initial probes into the grisly murders of which one Christopher Pelant was suspected. How the investigations led to dead ends with the sudden implication of Brennan in the murder of Ethan Sawyer. Broadening his search to include the term "Hacktivist", he also dug up several blogs, rife with anti-establishment screeds and conspiracy theories. Plus a few odd chatroom archives, dating back to 2010, with other like-minded individuals. Quite a few of whom lived in or around Afghanistan for some reason.

He also discovered (after deciphering a ridiculously easy password sequence to break into their systems) the most recent crime being investigated by the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal team; the murder of former FBI Assistant Director Andrew Hacker. His dismembered remains were discovered two days ago encircling the base of the Washington Monument which had been graffitied with blood, spelling the words; _"Mene, mene, tekel upharsin." _An FBI agent, Seeley Booth, had been considered a person of interest but after initial investigations was not a suspect. Grasping a new thread, Holmes widened his search again to include "Seeley Booth". A decorated Army Ranger, proficient sniper, successful, albeit maverick, FBI agent. "Atrocious taste in socks," Holmes observed. Frequently working alongside the Jeffersonian. Alongside Brennan. One son from a previous relationship, Parker Booth. A cursory glance at a hospital registry showed the name Christine Angela Booth, daughter of Seeley Booth and Temperance Brennan. Born in a barn, brought to the hospital shortly afterwards for a quick check-up. Holmes located a color photograph of Agent Booth, comparing his features to those of Temperance and Christine. "That explains the cheekbones at least," he mused absently.

Satisfied that he had enough facts to make a reasoned analysis, he put his laptop aside, made certain that the driver's side window was rolled tight, and closed his eyes. It was a discipline he taught himself, to shut out all outside distractions and enter a fugue state, what he called his "mental palace". Safely locked away from the world, he immersed himself in the facts of the case, seeking to connect a thousand dots into a coherent picture...

_Pelant—Hactivist—blogging to Afghanistan—2010—Afghanistan—special advisor to the Afghan Army—Seeley Joseph Booth—Jeffersonian—Temperance Brennan—message in blood—Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin—numbered, numbered, weighed, divided—the Fall of Babylon—Pelant, sending a message—a country divided—Booth and his family divided—_

_How could Pelant be under house arrest and still commit these murders? What's the connection to him and the Jeffersionian? What's the key—What's the key—_

_THERE IS NO KEY, DOOFUS!_

Moriarty's words, over six months ago. Over a lifetime ago. They hit Holmes like a wave of ice-cold water, shocking him out of his fugue state. Shaking himself like an animal shaking excess water from his fur, he reined in his frustration. So close—he was so close to the key—

No key—

No key—

In his last encounter with Moriarty, the criminal mastermind managed to be acquitted of grand theft, even when he was caught in the shattered display case in the Tower of London, gleefully wearing the Crown Jewels. The first step in an elaborate charade designed to discredit the famed consulting detective, to show him up as a mere mortal. An elaborate charade that, in the end, was powered by a mundane deception. The supposed smartphone ap that allowed Moriarty to break into the Bank of England, the Tower of London and Pentonville Prison simultaneously ultimately was designed to signal his confederates. And it worked. Holmes was kept happily chasing his tail in search of a diabolical plot, only to get a banal resolution. And a reputation in tatters.

A mirthless laugh pushed its way past Holmes' mouth. It all started to fit together. In so many ways, Holmes realized, Pelant was Moriarty. Intelligent, amoral, arrogant—and in the end, banal.

With that newfound knowledge, Holmes re-opened his laptop and did one last search, of the Washington D. C. telephone directory. He looked up a specific number, withdrew his mobile phone and dialed.

"Hello, I wish to speak to Seeley Booth, please."

TBC


	2. The Truth In the Improbable

_Author's note: I'm playing a little fast and loose with continuity on this one. I tried to stick as closely as I could, so hopefully any errors won't be too jarring. And I didn't pull the cherry blossom tree out of left field; Bones suggested it at the end of "The Crack in the Code"._

Chapter two:  
The Truth in the Improbable

"_How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, __however improbable,__ must be the truth?"  
_–_Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Sign of Four"_

* * *

"So, Booth," Wendell Bray wiped his brow as he admired their handiwork, "What do you think?"

"Looks good," Seeley Booth replied as he handed Bray a bottle of IPA. A newly planted ten-foot tall cherry blossom tree now graced the back yard of the Brennan/Booth home, just outside the nursery window. Booth padded down the last of the dirt around the tree with his shovel. Small green leaves fluttered gently in a mild breeze. "Thanks for the help, Bray."

"Glad to," Bray said as he sipped his beer. "Next spring, this tree'll explode with cherry blossoms. It'll be something to see."

"Yeah," Booth answered with a resigned shrug.

Bray picked up on the vague distress in his friend's voice and mannerisms and patted him on the shoulder. "They'll come home, Booth," he assured him. "We'll clear Dr. Brennan of the murder rap. We're already—"

"Don't say anything more," Booth intoned darkly. "I can't hear it."

Booth's choice of words conveyed enough meaning for the young intern. Not "I don't want to hear it," but "I can't hear it." Bray nodded his head in silence. Booth knew what he was doing. Any words regarding the Jeffersonian's unofficial investigation of the Pelant case had to remain unspoken. Since Special Agent Hayes Flynn took over the Pelant case, as well as spearheading the manhunt for Dr. Temperance Brennan, Booth had to be kept out of the loop. The less Booth knew, the less he would have to state in court, should he be forced to testify against Brennan. More than anything else, Booth wanted to shout "Screw you!" to Flynn, pack up his car and try to find Brennan himself, not to turn her in but just to be with her, with Christine. With his family.

But even with all his skills as a former Army Ranger, he feared that he would not be able to ward off all pursuers. If he could find Bones, then Flynn could, just by following him.

Or worse, Pelant could.

So he stayed at home, reviewed what he did know about the Pelant case, and prayed. And cursed that he was not able to do more.

"Just so you know," Bray gestured toward the tree, "you only need to apply fertilizer once a year, during warm weather. Just water it heavily for now and you should be set."

"Uh, yeah, thanks," Booth muttered absently. "Look, I don't need a baby sitter or anything. I know that Cam has you, Ange and Jack on a rotation to make sure I stay out of trouble, and I appreciate it. But I'll be okay. I'm not going to off half-cocked and try to take out Pelant on my own. It wouldn't help me, and it sure as hell wouldn't help Bones."

"Hey, I understand," Bray answered. "Trust me, Booth, it'll all work out. We'll uncover the truth. It's what we do, right?"

Booth nodded. "Right. And I'll do what I can at my end."

After finishing his ale, Bray announced, "Hey, I promised Dr. Saroyan that I'd meet her later. Are you—"

"I'm fine," Booth dismissed him, "Go. And thanks for helping me out with the tree."

"No problem," Bray answered. "Later."

As Bray departed, Booth stayed outside to admire the tree some more. It was Brennan's idea, planting a cherry blossom tree outside their daughter's nursery. Something beautiful for her to look at in the Spring, when the branches would be covered in a riot of small pink-white flowers. Booth hoped that she would approve when they returned—

If they returned—

Booth shook his head violently at the thought. _No 'If'! Don't think 'If'! Only 'When'! There's no other option!_

He went back inside the house, the house he located eight months ago at a police auction site. The 'Mighty Hut', as Brennan called it. He prowled the hallway silently until he stood outside the nursery. The mobile that Parker had constructed for his half-sister was still hanging over the empty bassinet. He turned away in a vain attempt to subdue the fresh stab of heartache as he thought about his missing family.

"God," he whispered toward the heavens for the hundred-and-twelfth time, "please watch over Bones and Christine and bring them safely home."

He remembered when he first brought Brennan to this abandoned house. 'Fixer-upper' didn't begin to describe it. Bare foundations, huge swaths of plaster ripped from the walls, dust and rubble over every level surface. Booth was about to give up and try to get his deposit back, when Brennan once again surprised him.

"It's perfect," she announced. "I can see the bones, the bones of the house." Not fooled by surface appearance, she recognized the strong framework, the firm foundations. She saw what the house could become with some serious repair work, new fixtures and wiring, and some honest blood, toil, tears and sweat. After a couple of months, with a little help from Wendell Bray, Jack Hodgins and the rest of the 'squints', the house did indeed become a home. Just in time for Christine Angela Booth to greet the world.

But now, standing alone, not knowing where Bones and Christine are, or when he would ever see them again, the house didn't feel like home to him.

All he could see were the bones.

As if to add insult to injury, a week into Bones' disappearance, that was when he discovered the bugs. Surveillance microphones and tiny webcams located throughout the home. When the FBI completed a detailed search of the house, they turned up five in the bedroom (not counting that surveillance cam in his alarm clock), two in the "man-cave", one in the main bathroom and three in the nursery. Flynn assured Booth that the FBI had no part in bugging his house, adding, "If we wanted to monitor you, we wouldn't need to be that obvious."

Booth didn't know what made him more furious; the fact that someone—Pelant, very likely although proving it was nearly impossible—had bugged his home, his bedroom, his daughter's room; or that asshole Flynn's smug grin as he assured him that the FBI "would look into the matter". Once again reminding Booth that he was no longer part of the investigation.

Last year, when Brennan announced that he was going to be a father again, he thought his life could not get any better. Now, he couldn't see how it could get any worse.

Was he angry with her, for taking their daughter, for running? Yes, he was forced to admit to himself, when he realized her plan, when he saw her car pulling away from the church for the last time; yes he was possessed of a white-hot fury. For all of ten minutes before it burnt away, leaving worry and despair. It still hurt, but he knew her decision was not born of malice. Max Keenan spelled it out for him; if she stayed, if she allowed the FBI to arrest her, it would be an automatic death sentence. She was one half of one of the most successful investigation teams in FBI history. Their closure record spoke for itself; Howard Epps, Gormogon, Heather "Gravedigger" Taffett, Jacob Broadsky, some of the worst scum to ever prowl the streets of DC, brought to justice by the winning combination of his tenacity and her brilliance. If she were imprisoned, even for a crime she did not commit, odds are that she wouldn't have survived to face arraignment, let alone trial. Someone would have recognized her as the forensics expert who helped put him/her away. Just one shiv, that's all it would take. And all the bugs they found in his home after Brennan disappeared confirmed that Pelant could easily make Christine his next victim at any time if Brennan hadn't taken their daughter with her.

So she did what she had to do, to save her family, to save their daughter. And as much as it galled him to the very marrow to know he could not protect the two most important women in his life, he accepted reluctantly that hers was the only course of action available. And it would only work if he somehow completed the puzzle, if he finally took down Pelant.

He retreated into his 'Man Cave', an office/entertainment room he maintained on the opposite side of the house from the master-bedroom, and once again opened a manila file labeled "Pelant". He more or less lived there since Brennan's vanishing; after he was assured that there were no more bugs or listening devices in the Man Cave, he used the space as his private study and retreat, even sleeping on the big leather sofa he insisted on moving in from his old apartment. He could still hear Bones' voice in his head, admonishing him:

_It doesn't make sense for you to sleep on the sofa, it's much too small for you._

_True, Bones,_ he thought back in despair, _but our bed's just too big without you in it. _

He still did what he could to stay in the loop regarding the Pelant case. Even though his suspension from the FBI was lifted, he was still assigned desk duty until "further notice". Scuttlebutt from some of the younger officers in the Bureau indicated that Flynn's definition of 'further notice' translated to 'until Booth retires, quits in disgust or eats his gun'. And with Andrew Hacker's murder two days ago, the tension at the Bureau was palpable. It was a matter of public record that there was no love lost between Hacker and Booth, especially considering Hacker's brief, very public, relationship with Dr. Temperance Brennan, roughly two years before Brennan and Booth finally got together. Some within the FBI seemed to regard him as a suspect. To Booth's increasing ire, most of those seemed to be on Flynn's personal task force.

The prime sore spot in this whole case was how Pelant could have committed these grisly crimes without carrying any evidence with him, or even leaving his apartment without triggering his ankle monitor. He was still under house arrest during those times, so there was no conclusive way to prove his culpability. Even Judge Caroline Julian, a woman who could negotiate the stripes off a tiger, couldn't convince Pelant's parole board to reconsider their decision to release him. Somehow, Pelant was able to confound his ankle monitor. There was no other explanation. But not even Angela was able to figure out how. And after Flynn ordered the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal team off the case, confident that he had his prime suspect in Brennan, the tensions between the two departments just escalated from there. Dr. Camille Saroyan made a public announcement that the Jeffersonian would be suspending all cooperation with the FBI indefinitely, while privately launching her own investigation into Pelant. Flynn attempted to confiscate any evidence the Jeffersonian had collected from the Ethan Saywer muder, as well as barring them from the Washington Monument when Agent Andrew Hacker's remains were discovered.

Along with that cryptic message, scrawled in blood on the monument's base; "Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin."

He felt like he was chasing his tail, while the FBI and the Jeffersonian were playing departmental politics with each other, and Flynn seemed clearly less interested in catching the true killer than he was in grandstanding, getting noticed by his superiors, getting promoted.

_And my daughter and the woman I love are caught in the crossfire._

The incessant trill of his phone broke through the darkness of his thoughts. Reluctantly, Booth reached for the handset. "Yo," he greeted the caller.

"Hello, I wish to speak to Seeley Booth, please." The voice was clipped, severe, and had a distinctive British flavor to it.

"You got 'im," Booth growled irritably.

"Mr. Booth, we do not know each other, but I have some information that should prove of interest to you—"

"Look," Booth interrupted, "whatever you're selling I'm not buying. Just take my number off your call list, okay?" He slammed the handset back on the cradle and returned to the file. Ten seconds later the phone rang again.

"Mr. Booth," That same bitten-off voice.

"Listen, Mister," Booth shouted into the mouthpiece, "I don't have time for this! Don't call me again!" Before Booth could hang up again, the caller managed to finish his sentence:

"I have been in contact with Bones!"

Booth found himself fumbling for the handset as it nearly slipped from his fingers. "Bones?"

"Yes, Dr. Brennan. She wasn't calling herself that, of course," the voice replied. "Currently a peroxide blond, but judging from the roots, her natural shade is closer to chestnut. She was travelling with a young child. Christine, I believe she called her."

Anger lodged itself in Booth's gut and inflamed his voice. "Tell me that they are well," Booth snarled. "And keep in mind that I am a crack sniper and if you've hurt either of them I will dedicate my life to ending you!"

"You need not worry for their safety," the Brit replied imperiously. "I merely rescued a stranded motorist, helped her fill her petrol tank and sent her on her merry way. As of half-an-hour ago, Dr. Brennan and Christine were alive and well. I did not bother to ask where they were headed, so don't bother asking me." After a pause, he added, "We did have a fascinating conversation regarding one Christopher Pelant."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because, from what I have ascertained, she is an innocent pawn in Pelant's game, and you may be the only one who can bring him to checkmate."

Booth hung his head in resignation. "Believe me; I'm following every lead we have on that slime bag."

"I'm sure you are," the Brit agreed. "You're following him right where he wants to lead you. Let me pose a question for you; how can a man such as Pelant be in two places at once? Let's make it more general; how can any man be in two places at once?"

Booth paused and considered the stranger's question before giving an answer. "He...he can't."

"Very good, Agent Booth." The sheer levels of condescension in the speaker's voice put Booth on edge, gnawing at his already worn patience. _Jeez, this guy's worse than Bones when we first met... _Booth disregarded that errant thought immediately. While it was true that Temperance Brennan could be abrasive, arrogant and overly literal, she was also one of the finest minds, and one of the most inherently ethical people Booth ever encountered. _Not to mention the most beautiful, body and mind and (metaphorical) soul._

"Now the question for you to answer is this;" the speaker continued. "Who has had contact with Mr. Pelant? On that question hinges the whole problem. I would recommend especially those with whom he had maintained online contact with prior to his house arrest."

"Why are you doing this?" Booth asked desperately. "Why even call me?"

"Because I feel that you and Dr. Brennan are kindred spirits." The arrogance was gone from his voice, replaced by a knowing weariness. "Our end goal is justice. And from my brief conversation with Dr. Brennan, I gained a sense of who she is. Right now the one thing that motivates her is her unshakable belief that you will not fail her. I ask you, as one hunter to another, prove me right." The click of a disconnected cellular, and the line went dead.

The silence within Booth's man-cave almost engulfed him. Somehow the knowledge that Brennan and Christine were still alive and well did little to comfort him. There was every reason why he should not have trusted the caller; he could have simply read a newspaper headline or caught a broadcast on one of the news channels pertaining to the Ethan Sawyer case and had simply called Booth to harass him.

But why would he have said "Bones"? His personal nickname for Brennan was hardly a state secret, but neither was it the kind of thing that would be noted in news broadcasts.

Against all the logic in the universe, he chose to believe the caller. Which left him with a new question; who is working with Pelant?

He opened the bottom drawer of his computer desk and withdrew what Hodgins called the Black Box. When the Jeffersonian opted to continue their investigation into Pelant without FBI backing, Hodgins met with Booth in private and gave him a laptop computer custom-built by his wife Angela. She had installed frequency jamming circuitry, along with anti-erasure tech and enough redundancy files and protocols to make hacking all but impossible. This way, Hodgins reasoned, Booth could keep up with the investigation while remaining "off the grid"; neither the FBI nor Pelant would be able to detect him. For once in his life Booth was grateful that Hodgins was such a conspiracy buff.

He began his search with "Hactivist", and narrowed it by adding "Pelant". But this time he avoided any links that took him to the current known facts of the case. He had visited those sites so many times that he could quote them by chapter and verse. This time he checked some of the less-traveled roads; forums, conspiracy-theorist blogs, chat room transcripts, anything that could give him a full picture of who he was and who he knew before his attack on the DOD's computer system.

Pelant (according to the information Booth gleaned) was formerly a code-writer for Firestarter, a prominent web-hosting firm. He specialized in website formatting and 3D flash animation. For a time he was regarded as the new internet Wunderkind, his name up there with Steve Jobs and Mark Zuckerberg. Then, around 2008, he was implicated in an ambitious identity theft scheme; hidden lines in the codes he created for various stock-trading websites copied and replicated the credit card numbers of several of the sites' wealthiest customers, who suddenly found their accounts gradually being depleted. There was no solid evidence leading directly to Pelant, but there was enough suspicion to tarnish his name, making him unemployable by any computer firm in the country. Pelant then disappeared from public life, until the DOD incident, which led to his being placed under house arrest with an ankle monitor, forbidden by the court to go near a computer. _Not like that stopped him,_ Booth thought darkly.

Pelant's trail grew cold, but Booth did notice that sometime after Pelant disappeared, the name "Hacktivist" appeared on a number of political chat-rooms and forums, either spelled straight or in some variation of 'leet speak', replacing the 'a' with the 'at' sign used in email addresses. A random sampling of posts attributed to "Hacktivist" contained incendiary anti-government screeds. And every profile contained the same word; "BANNED". The more recent posts, the ones that Booth suspected led to his being banned from most of the boards he researched, were increasingly extremist, calling for armed revolution. Several of the posts seemed to bear little to no relation to the discussion at hand, just a collection of disjointed revolutionary slogans. _An internet bomb-thrower,_ Booth pondered. _Sounds like Pelant all right._

Some of the forums featured the option for users to include a signature to their posts. Almost all of Hacktavist's posts featured the same signature, "Mene, mene, tekel upharsin." The same words painted in blood over the base of the Washington Monument when they found the remains of Andrew Hacker. _Coincidence? I don't think so._

Just to jog his memory, Booth searched the words "Mene Tekel". The results confirmed what he remembered from Bible study classes as a kid; the phrase was Aramaic and came from the Old Testament. In the Book of Daniel, Chapter 5, Belshazzar, king of Babylon, held a great feast for his lords, which was interrupted when he saw angelic hands writing the words "Mene mene tekel upharsin" on the palace walls. The words literally translated as "Numbered, Numbered, Weighed, Divided". He called for a translator to interpret the message, and Daniel, a prophet from the Hebrew tenements, stepped forward. Daniel gave the interpretation that God had numbered the days of Babylon, weighed the worth of Belshazzar and found him wanting, and that his kingdom would be divided among the Persians and the Medes. That very night Belshazzar was killed and Babylon conquered by Darius, king of Persia. Indeed, the phrase "The handwriting is on the wall" came from this incident.

_Mene mene tekel upharsin. Was Pelant saying that the US Government was weighed and measured by God, and destined to be divided by its enemies as Babylon was? Typical diatribes from an anti-government extremist. Except his crimes didn't have a religious component to them before now. Great, now I'm sounding like Sweets!_

Before his banning from one of the forums, there were a number of private forum posts as well. Quite a few private exchanges between Hacktivist and someone called JWB2009. He did a quick check on JWB2009 and was appalled at his signature. "Sic Semper Tyrannus". "Thus Ever to Tyrants", the words spoken by a poor Southern stage actor just after he murdered Abraham Lincoln. John Wilkes Booth. JWB. Booth groaned aloud at the realization. A handful of people, Brennan included, were aware that Booth was a direct descendant of the first man to assassinate a sitting President. He did not claim kinship with pride. As far as Booth was concerned, it was just another red mark on his Cosmic Balance Sheet.

He further browsed the chat-room transcripts and stumbled onto a most telling private conversation:

_**Hacktivist:**__ Ready for zero hour?  
**JWB2009:**__ I'm ready at this end.  
**Hacktivist:**__ Good. At 0400 your time, you set up the distraction while I do what I do best.  
**JWB2009:**__ Will do. They'll just think it's another car-bombing, it's practically a national pastime here.  
**Hacktivist:**__ You'd better be prepared, partner. People under your command will end up dead if this works.  
**JWB2009: **__ Like that bothers me. People die every day in warzones. Besides, the USA betrayed me; I won't shed any tears for dead soldiers.  
**Hacktivist:**__ That's the spirit. Remember the betrayal, it'll make you stronger. And once you light the fuse and the DOD does their ritual Dance of the Headless Chickens, that's when I'll step in—_

The chat was dated 03/02/09. March 2, 2009. The day before Pelant's attack on the DOD computer grid.

"And Bingo was his name-o," Booth intoned with a feral smile as he pulled up a new search-engine window and typed in "Car bombings March 2009". The most prominent items revolved around reports of a car-bombing five miles west of Kabul, which took out a squad of US soldiers. About the same time, the DOD computers crashed for a few minutes, thanks to Pelant's hacking, making investigating the terrorist attack much more difficult. A charred body, identified by dental records as a known Al-Qaida operative, was retrieved from the blast, so the Board of Inquiry was satisfied for the most part, and the soldiers who died in the attack were sent home and buried at Arlington with full honors. But the senior military advisor in Afghanistan at the time was mortally embarrassed by the attack taking place on his watch. A few months later, he was sent home and a new advisor took his place.

Booth nodded knowingly. He was that advisor, having taken the position in large part to put some distance between himself and Brennan when she rejected his declaration of love for her. A few months later, he returned to DC—with Hannah Burley on his arm. Whose subsequent rejection stung even harder than Brennan's, but ironically helped clear the way for Booth and Brennan to finally find each other.

And now Afghanistan was threatening to rip them apart again. The irony was not lost on Booth.

Booth then looked up the name of his predecessor in Afghanistan. As he read the name, he found himself suppressing a strong urge to vomit.

_That son of a bitch!_

He continued his research, diligently scouring for more clues to confirm what his gut was telling him was the truth. By the time he was finished, dusk was falling outside his window. Once he was satisfied, he logged out of his computer and considered his course of action. Ten minutes later he pulled a prepaid cellular phone he had purchased a few days ago out of his desk drawer and dialed the first in a series of numbers.

* * *

He finished the last of his paperwork, shut down his computer, pushed himself away from his desk and steeled himself for the Metro ride to his apartment, when the phone rang. With a sigh of resignation, he switched on the speaker-phone feature and greeted his caller.

_"Sic semper tyrannus, asshole!"_

The words, spoken by what was obviously a computer-altered voice, drained the blood from his face and deposited a chill in the back of his neck. "Excuse me," he greeted the caller with all the calm he could muster, "but do I know you?"

_"Not really, but I know you."_

"Look, whoever you are," he grimaced; games like these were the last thing he needed this time of night. "I'm afraid you have the wrong number."

_"Oh do I? So the name JWB2009 doesn't mean anything to you?"_

An icicle stabbed his heart. This was bad. "How did you get this number, it's a secured line!"

_"Never mind that. We need to discuss the final dispensation of the estate of Andrew Hacker."_

He started to feel like a trapped fox, with the hounds closing in. "Look, you obviously have something important to discuss, so perhaps we should meet in person. How about we have a nice dinner somewhere—"

_"Founding Fathers. You know where that is? Over by the Jeffersonian."_

He nodded, a thin sheen of perspiration forming on his brow. "Yeah, I know where it is."

_"Meet me in the alleyway behind the Founding Fathers at 2330. They'll be closed by then. We can discuss what we have to discuss then. Come alone, or your name becomes the lead story on CNN tomorrow."_ A muffled click, and the line went dead.

Booth shut his cell-phone with a grim satisfaction. The mouse is nibbling at the cheese, time to set the trap.

_Hang on, Bones, _he thought fervently. _I'll get you and Christine home soon..._

TBC


	3. The Wolf In the Sheep's Clothing

_Author's Note: I apologize for any technical or legal errors I've made. I may re-edit this chapter if necessary._

_Still don't own 'em._

Chapter three:

The Wolf in the Sheep's Clothing

"_If__ you are clever enough to __bring destruction upon me, rest assured that I shall do as much to __you."_

_"You have paid me several compliments, Mr. Moriarty...Let me pay you one in return when I say that if I were __assured of the former eventuality I would, in the interests of the __public, cheerfully accept the latter."_

–_Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Final Problem"_

* * *

Summers in Washington D. C. tended to be humid, and this late July evening was no exception. Although the temperature had fallen about ten degrees from the previous evening, the steamy night air still seemed to cling to Booth's face. He stood silently, waiting for his contact outside the Founding Fathers. The popular eatery was closed for the evening, the staff had gone home. _Good,_ thought Booth. _No one to get caught in any crossfire. _

11:30, he told his quarry. He glanced at his watch for the eighteenth time since he entered the alley. 11:45. If he didn't know any better, he would swear he was being stood up.

He prowled the alleyway nervously. This was the biggest risk he had ever taken, and there was a very real chance he would not survive. Hopefully the arrangements he made would insure his survival, or at the very least the survival of his family.

He thought of Bones and Christine. That made it easy for him to move forward with his plan.

He heard a telltale sound of shoes on asphalt. He concealed himself in the shadows behind a fire escape as a lean figure stepped nervously into the half-lights of the alleyway.

Booth half-hoped that his suspicions were wrong. He could imagine Brennan chastising him for leading with his gut and not analyzing the facts. _Look Bones, _he mentally replied,_ I'll do my street thing, and you do your keeping-our-daughter-safe thing_. _Together, we catch bad guys._

He analyzed the facts as far as he could. Now it was time to go with his gut. Over his years as both an Army Ranger and an FBI special agent, he learned when to trust his instincts. His instincts told him that he had his quarry dead to rights. His secret phone call to his office simply confirmed his suspicions.

_Which is worse, _he wondered. _That Pelant could rip my family apart on a whim, or that the man placed in charge of apprehending Brennan was the reason she was forced to run in the first place?_

The quarry stepped further into the alley, his face still hidden in shadow. Let's see our mystery guest's face, shall we? Booth pulled out a small flashlight out of his jacket pocket and aimed it at the direction of the sound. The figure in the make-shift spotlight froze in his tracks.

"FBI!" Special Agent Hayes Flynn shouted, reaching for his shoulder holster. "Who's there? Show yourself?"

"Special Agent Booth," Booth answered, displaying his ID wallet.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Hayes snorted as he relaxed his hands somewhat.

"I'd ask you the same thing," Booth replied amiably, "but I think I know. Me, I just got a new lead on the Pelant case."

Flynn glowered angrily at Booth. "You should have passed that intel on to me, Booth. You're not on the Pelant case, I am."

"Now see, that's the problem," Booth shrugged his shoulders. "I mean, you being point-man for a case where you happen to be the suspect's accomplice, that's gotta be a conflict of interest at the very least, huh?"

White hot coals smoldered in the depths of Flynn's eyes. "Don't even bother showing for work tomorrow, Booth. Your career just ended. I'll have you brought up on so many charges of insubordination and slander they'll have to mail your clothes to you in prison." He began to turn away.

"Don't you wanna hear my report, JWB?" Booth asked nonchalantly. Flynn's feet froze on the asphalt in mid-step. Booth half-smiled with a grim satisfaction. _He shoots, he scores._

"What the hell are you talking about, Booth?" Flynn's words were slow and measured, but Booth could sense the undercurrent of dread beneath them.

"Y'know," Booth answered casually, a friendly smile playing at his face, "not a lot of people know that I'm a direct descendant of John Wilkes Booth. Yep, it's true. I don't brag about it of course, but it's not like you can choose your ancestors, right?" He paused for a moment, allowing the smile to fade from both his face and his voice. "But you knew, didn't you? You know, Pelant knows, and you were going to use that against me, weren't you?" Flynn stood passively, saying nothing as Booth approached him, his footsteps echoing in the alleyway like distant thunder.

"Afghanistan, 2009. You were there," Booth continued. "You were a special advisor, working with the Afghan military. You were with the Army Rangers, same as me. But something happened. A car-bomb outside of Kabul. Seven US soldiers died, fifteen injured. They found the corpse of a known Al-Qaida operative in the driver's seat. Figured it was a closed case. But an autopsy on the driver found trace evidence of some kind of chemical in the man's system. Not enough to indicate whether the chemical caused his death, but enough to raise some red flags. So your senior officers decided to ship you back to the FBI and replace you with a new special advisor. Namely, yours truly."

"What's that got to do with Pelant?"

"Oh not much," Booth replied. "At least until two and a half months ago, when Ethan Sawyer's body was found, half-eaten by wolves. Whoever left Sawyer there injected him with a paralytic compound. He was alive when the wolves got to him, but unable to move. And no one noticed that the chemical found in our unknown Al-Qaida car-bomber's system was the same paralytic. Until I started snooping."

Flynn sneered at Booth, but his darting eyes gave away his fear. "You've got a lot of circumstantial evidence, Booth. But in the end, that's all it is, circumstantial."

"Juries have convicted with less," Booth assured him. "Of course I haven't gotten to the good part; hours before the car-bombing, there was an online chat between someone calling himself JWB2009 and 'Hacktivist'. Which is how Pelant first described himself when I first encountered him. His exact word, Flynn. Hacktivist." He paused, placing a finger to his lips in thought. "Oh, and just one more thing," he added with a light laugh. "Sorry, used to watch 'Columbo' as a kid, always wanted to say that. Anyway, from what I discovered from the reports on Andrew Hacker's remains, the same chemical was found in his system, and he was conscious when the axe severed his head."

Booth stepped closer to Flynn, his face a mask of righteous wrath. "What was the plan, Flynn?" he demanded, as the humor fled from his voice, replaced by untrammeled rage. "Have Pelant plant some emails or something in my computer system, indicating that I was the mysterious JWB? Drop a few hints regarding my own ancestry? Plant some of that same paralytic in my car, or my home? Or some of his DNA, the way you set up Bones? Use the fact that I was once jealous that Hacker once dated Bones as a motive? Frame me for Hacker's murder the way you framed Bones for Sawyer's?"

Flynn glanced furtively around himself, as though searching for escape from shadows that threatened to encroach around him. Finally he returned his gaze toward Booth, a shark's smile splitting his face. "Look, Booth, we're both reasonable men. You know how things work in the real world, right? At the end of the day, we all have our price. C'mon, Booth, whattya really want?"

Booth regarded the figure before him with an undisguised contempt. "What do I want?" he asked blandly. "The Philadelphia Flyers to win the Stanley Cup, Bones and Christine home and safe, and your ass in jail for the rest of your miserable life. I don't have any control over the Flyers, but hey, two out of three ain't bad."

Flynn shook his head, chuckling mirthlessly. "Sorry, Booth," he announced, "but it looks like you're gonna be oh for three on this one." In a single lightning-fast motion he withdrew his Glock 23 from his shoulder holster and aimed it between Booth's eyes. "Hands where I can see them!"

Booth froze in place, his hands pointed upwards, the flashlight falling from his hand and clattering to the ground. He knew that this was a greater risk than any mission he ever dared during his career as both an Army Ranger and an FBI special agent. The sight of Flynn's Glock barrel pointed directly at his head helped hone the situation to a razor's edge, providing a rare and absolute clarity of vision. He was oddly reminded of a passage from Shakespeare that he had memorized for 2nd year college English Lit; Richard III, act 5, scene 4: "I have set my life upon a cast, and I will stand the hazard of the die." Or as Booth was known to say during his gambling days, "Time to put up or shut up!"

_Let's just hope I have better luck than Ricky the Third did!_

Roughly Flynn patted down Booth's body with his free hand, while placing the barrel of the gun at Booth's left temple. "No gun, huh," he spat out contemptuously as he stuck his hand inside Booth's jacket, feeling the empty shoulder-holster. "Too bad you were stuck on desk duty, huh, Booth?" He felt around Booth's chest for a few more seconds. "No wires either, huh? How the hell did you make it in the FBI before you met Brennan anyway?"

"Clean living," Booth snarked.

Flynn growled angrily at Booth before pulling a second Glock out of his inside jacket pocket and tossing it on the ground. "Pick it up!" he barked at him.

Booth regarded the gun on the ground at his feet for a second before looking back at Flynn. "No, I don't think so."

"I said pick it up!" Flynn shouted.

"Why?" Booth demanded. "So you can say I was armed and threatened to kill you? So you can put in your report that you killed me in self defense, rather than to cover up your string of murders? You're gonna kill me either way, so I don't really have much incentive to make it easy for you, now do I?"

Flynn stood his ground, his Glock still aimed at Booth's head. "It'll be a little tougher," Flynn growled, "but not impossible. They'll find the gun in your hand, don't worry about that."

"And the squints will make swiss cheese of your story once they examine the evidence," Booth mocked the traitorous special agent. "You really didn't think this through, did you?"

"By the time they do," Flynn replied, "it'll be too late for your girlfriend and your daughter. I'm closing in on her, y'know. We still had one bug left in your home, in your phone. Pelant and I were hoping that Brennan would try to contact you. She's been smart enough to avoid it, but I figured it would be a matter of time. Imagine my surprise when I heard your conversation today, with that British fellow who helped her? We were able to trace the call to a stretch of highway in Georgia. Enough to narrow down the possible places where she could be hiding."

Booth gritted his teeth, reining in the nearly all-consuming desire to grab the nearest heavy object and hammer Flynn's skull with it. "You stay the hell away from them, you son of a bitch!"

"Booth, considering that I'm gonna put a bullet in your head in about one minute, your threats don't work on me!" Flynn paused briefly, grunting a vaguely sinister laugh. "But don't worry, Booth, you'll see your family soon enough. Y'see, when I find Brennan, I don't think she'll surrender willingly. In fact, she'll fire at me first. I won't have a choice but to take her down clean. One shot one kill. And I fear that I won't arrive soon enough to save poor baby Christine. The way I see it, Brennan will decide to shove a pillow in her face, smothering her to death, rather than force her to deal with the foster care meat grinder the way she did. At least that's how my report will read." As he fingered the trigger of his gun, he added, "Don't worry, Booth. I won't make Christine suffer when I kill her." He slowly squeezed the trigger...

Suddenly the alleyway was awash with light from the headlamps of four police cars blocking the alley, two on either side. FBI agents circled the two agents, their guns trained on Flynn. "DROP IT!" the gravelly voice of Deputy Director Sam Cullen blared out of a megaphone, "OR WE DROP YOU!"

"Director Cullen!" Flynn shouted out, still pointing his gun at Booth as though hiding behind it. "This man was threatening me! He's blaming me for his girlfriend running out on him—"

"Let's see if I have this straight, son," Cullen spoke in a tone of bland condescension. "You're the one pointing a gun on him, and he's the threat?"

"I had to disarm him, sir!" Flynn cried out nervously, his grip on his gun slacking. "He helped Brennan escape, sir, I—"

"Save it," Cullen barked as he grabbed Flynn's right arm, knocking his gun out of his trembling fingers. "Booth had the whole alley wired before you showed up. We've got everything on tape." Pushing Flynn into a nearby wall and securing his wrists behind his back, he added, "And I personally heard you threaten to kill Booth's daughter!"

Booth glared at Flynn, undisguised hatred burning in his hooded eyes. "Can you pick out the one word there you probably shouldn't have said?" he asked, his voice strangely tranquil yet edged with the fury. He wasn't a Special Agent talking down a perp, he was a father facing the man who dared to threaten his child. He balled and unballed his fists repeatedly, reining in with supreme effort his desire to grab the nearest heavy object and slam it repeatedly against Flynn's skull. He needed Flynn alive in order to bring down Pelant. To clear Bones. To get his family back.

Shoving Flynn roughly toward the nearest squad car, Cullen informed him, "You're under arrest for threatening a federal officer, and for assault with intent to kill. And I strongly suspect that within the next twenty-four hours we'll be adding more charges. You have the right to remain silent..." Flynn struggled ineffectually as Cullen finished reading him his rights and two other agents forced him into the squad car. A stoic Booth watched as the squad car pulled away. "Alright," Cullen barked to the remaining agents, "seal the area and collect the bugs." The agents scattered to fulfill their orders, as Cullen met with Booth.

"You did good, Agent Booth," Cullen assured him. "But the job's not done yet."

"I know that, sir," Booth nodded. "We can connect him to Sawyer and Hacker, and through them Pelant, but we'll need hard evidence to clear Bones."

"I already contacted Judge Julian," Cullen answered. "She told me to meet her at the courthouse. She'll have a search warrant for Flynn's place signed when I get there." He regarded Booth's face for a moment; his eyes seemed sunken, his skin pale. "Look, you've been running on adrenaline for the last twenty-four. Go sleep for a few hours and meet me at the courthouse."

Booth's head hung heavily over his shoulders. "Is that an order, sir?" he asked wearily.

"Not yet, son," Cullen said in a voice of fatherly authority. "I need you rested if we're finally going to bust Pelant. I need you at your best. So does Dr. Brennan."

Booth sighed in exasperation, before resigning himself to the inevitable. "All right, I'll drive home. Here," he added, pulling a notepad out of his jacket pocket, scribbling a number on the first available page, ripping it out and handing it to Cullen. "Here's the number to my cell. You call me the minute you hear anything. Don't call my home number; according to Flynn it's bugged."

"I already called up Dr. Saroyan," Cullen said. "Once I have the warrant, she and Dr. Hodgins will meet me at Flynn's place and break out the proverbial fine-toothed comb. The second we have anything, we'll call you. Go home, rest up."

Booth nodded. "The second you hear anything," he added one last time before heading back to his car in front of the Founding Fathers.

* * *

For once, he was almost relieved when the incessant chiming of his cellular woke him from his fitful slumber. Since Brennan's disappearance, when Booth was able to get anything resembling sleep, his dreams fell into one of three categories; either he was reunited with Brennan and Christine and spending time with his family; he was lying in bed with Brennan, often engaged in passionate lovemaking; or he was running toward Brennan across a field, only to hear the sickening crack of a bullet being fired and Pelant's hyena laughter as her corpse hit the ground. Tonight was an all-too-vivid example of the third, with the added fillip of Flynn carrying the dead body of his infant daughter.

His heart thudded a Neil Pearl drum solo in his chest and his breath came to him in heaving gasps. He deliberately held his breath for a few seconds before releasing it, willing himself to a state of relative calm, before he answered the phone. "Booth here," he greeted the caller.

"Meet me at the Jeffersonian," Cullen replied. "We got him."

He didn't need to hear the order twice. It took Booth two minutes to put on his pants and shoes, grab his suit jacket and head out the door, and another twenty to arrive at the Jeffersonian, where Cullen was waiting for him, carrying a briefcase. Once they met Cam Saroyan in the main lobby, the two agents followed her to the Medico-Legal labs. "Jack and Angela came through, Booth," she announced hurriedly as they made their way to the Angela's office. "They found enough evidence to put Flynn away, and possibly clear Dr. Brennan." As they entered the office, Cam pointed to Jack and Angela who were sitting at her computer system. "Give them the good news."

"On it," Angela flashed Booth the grin of a predator nearing its cornered quarry. "First off, the hospital surveillance footage that supposedly placed Bren at the psychiatric hospital the night Sawyer disappeared was bogus. I found some lines of coding that were altered ever-so-slightly in the hospital's time-stamp program that changed the dates to correspond to Sawyer's disappearance. The real date of the footage was two days previous, when she said she saw Sawyer the last time, and Sawyer was still in his room when she left. Second, the search of Flynn's apartment turned up this bad boy." She held up a black plastic band with a small black case on the side.

"An ankle-monitor," Booth identified the object.

"Yep," Jack said. "Ange ran a programming check and this one was issued to one Christoper 'You can't spell repellant without' Pelant, only this was never actually worn by him. I did a swab for DNA; no sweat residue, no hairs, no skin cells, nada! This sucker was activated but never actually worn. Then Angela went through its programming and found that the GPS chip was hacked into, so it read the same location, Pelant's apartment where he was supposed to be under house arrest. I've hypothesized that Pelant was wearing a dummy ankle monitor, so he could go anywhere he wanted and this monitor would still read that Pelant was at home."

"Why didn't he keep the monitor with him at his apartment?" Cullen asked.

"Number of times his home has been searched by the Feds," Jack answered, "he probably didn't want it in his possession. Too many red flags. So he had his partner in crime, Special Agent Flynn, aka JWB2009, keep it in his apartment for safe-keeping. Speaking of which," he produced a small half-empty vial. "Also dug up while searching Flynn's apartment; same paralytic used on both Ethan Sawyer and Agent Andrew Hacker."

"He was going to plant that on me," Booth confirmed, "in order to frame me for Hacker's murder. Given how jealous I was when he and Bones were dating, that would probably be seen as motive."

"Looks like we finally have the breakthrough we need to close this case," Saroyan announced.

Jack smiled proudly at his wife. "King and Queen of the Lab!" he announced, bowing at the waist toward Angela, who laughed throatily at her husband's praise.

Just at that moment, Cullen's cellular rang. "Cullen," he answered the phone. "He did? That's great news. Hmm..." he listened briefly for a few seconds before finishing the call. "Okay. We'll be down there in five minutes, Caroline." Closing the phone he announced, "That was Judge Julian. Flynn agreed to roll on Pelant. He'll plead guilty in a Federal court to the car-bombing in Kabul, as well as to being Pelant's accomplice in the murders of Hacker and Sawyer, as well as implicating Dr. Brennan for Sawyer's murder. According to Flynn, Pelant injected Sawyer with the paralytic, and also withdrew traces of blood which he planted in the trunk of Dr. Brennan's car, which is where they got the DNA traces that led to her being charged. In exchange for his testimony, the Judge Advocate General won't prosecute him for the car-bombing in a military court."

"What's the difference, Cullen?" Jack asked.

"Military court has the death penalty," Cullen explained. "DC Federal court doesn't."

"So instead of a needle in the arm, he gets three hots and a cot for the rest of his life," Jack nodded. "Either way, he rots. Works for me."

Cullen nodded in agreement, before turning to Booth and adding, "And to answer your next question, the charges against Dr. Brennan are being dropped."

"Thank God," Booth breathed fervently. Jack and Angela Hodgins also expelled sighs of relief at Cullen's declaration.

"She's just signed an arrest warrant for Pelant," Cullen said, placing his briefcase on Angela's desk and opening it. "Which means there's no better time than now to do this." Pulling a Glock 23 and shoulder holster out of the briefcase, he handed them to Booth, saying, "Special Agent Seeley Booth, you are hereby restored to full active duty as of now. And for your first assignment," he paused briefly before flashing a feral smile, "arrest that son-of-a-bitch!"

* * *

"FBI, open up!"

Orders were barked through megaphones as fists pounded against his door. Christopher Pelant realized that his game was over. As two agents began ramming at his door to break it down, Pelant rushed for the window, to make his way to the fire escape.

"Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin!"

Special Agent Seeley Booth stood on the fire-escape, gun aimed squarely at the bridge of Pelant's nose. His face set in granite, his eyes smoldering with raw contempt as they regarded the man who orchestrated the attempt to destroy his life and his family. Without raising his voice, he said to the so-called 'Hacktivist', "You don't know how much I wish you'd resist arrest right now."

As FBI agents filed through his now splintered doorway, Pelant swallowed hard and timidly lifted his hands into the air.

Check and mate.

* * *

The following day, 10 am EST:

"I will make a brief statement," Sam Cullen told the gathered reporters inside the conference room at FBI Headquarters, "and then answer your questions. Last night, the FBI made two arrests in connection to a series of killings in the District of Columbia over the last few months. Former Special Agent Hayes Flynn and Christopher Pelant, long a person of interest in a number of killings, have been arrested for the murders of Ethan Sawyer and Special Agent Andrew Hacker. In addition, due to evidence uncovered by the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Lab, Dr. Temperance Brennan, who had been the primary suspect in the murder of Ethan Sawyer, is no longer regarded as a suspect. All outstanding charges against her have been dropped. At this time, I wish to thank Agent Seeley Booth and the rest of the FBI, as well as the Medico-Legal team at the Jeffersonian, for their outstanding dedication in this case. Now I will answer your questions. You," he gestured to the first reporter who shot up her hand.

"Sharon Wilson, Huffington Post," she introduced herself. "While she is no longer a murder suspect, will Dr. Brennan still be charged for evading arrest?"

"Not at this time," Cullen answered. "I spoke with Federal Judge Caroline Julian, and it is the court's belief that she acted primarily to protect her daughter from Pelant, not out of contempt for the system. The court has no interest in punitive measures against her of any kind. Next, you in the gray jacket—[click]"

Booth turned off the press conference and sat in the silence of his 'man-cave'. He had replaced his home phone with a new model, thus removing the last of the bugs. The charges against Brennan had been dropped. He and the Squints had done what they needed to do, to take down Pelant and help prove Brennan innocent. Now, all he could do is hope that she had watched the press conference, or heard about it in the news somehow.

It occurred to him that the next few days would probably be harder on him than the last three months. At least as long as he could investigate, either with the FBI or on his own, he could keep busy, convince himself that he was actively doing something to help get his family back. Now, that he did all that he could do in that regard, all that was left was to wait. And Seeley Booth was hardly a patient man under the best of circumstances.

A rap at the front door drew his mind from these dark thoughts. He pulled himself off of his sofa and headed for the front door, calling out, "Hold your horses, buddy, I'm coming." He opened the door and stepped back in surprise at the graying sandy-blond haired gentleman standing before him.

"Is it true, Seeley?" Max Keenan asked. "You got him?"

"We got him," Booth told Brennan's father. "They dropped the charges against Bones."

A relieved grin spread over the older man's face. "Go pack a suitcase, Booth," he told him. "We're going to get our daughters back."

_TBC (no kiddin'!)_


	4. The Journey's End in the Lovers' Meeting

_Author's note; although the opening quote in this chapter is taken from Arthur Conan Doyle, it's not from a Sherlock Holmes novel. "The White Company" is a medieval romance about an apprentice knight during the Hundred Years War, who seeks to prove himself worthy of knighthood, and win the hand of his true love in the bargain. It's in public domain and available free and legal at the Project Gutenberg website, and I recommend it for anyone who likes Robin Hood or Ivanhoe. I was looking for a good romantic quote and let's face it, you're not going to find one in the Sherlock Holmes novels; Holmes was hardly a ladies' man. The quote seemed appropriate for this chapter, as it involves (at long last) the reunion of Booth and Bones._

* * *

Chapter four:

The Journey's End in the Lovers' Meeting

_"You are my heart, my life, my one and only thought."  
_—_Arthur Conan Doyle, "The White Company"_

* * *

Thirty five miles west of Blue Ridge, Georgia:

Two weeks ago, Christine's first baby tooth had emerged. She had cried and fussed almost ceaselessly as the tiny incisor first began to break through the gum line. The teething ring that Max had brought helped alleviate her irritation to a degree, until the tooth fully emerged. Doggedly, her mother chose not to wean her off of breastfeeding and onto feeding from a bottle just yet.

Watching her daughter sucking at her breast, a vague melancholy hit Temperance Brennan. _Another milestone in Christine's development that I took away from Booth_

She did not cry as her daughter fed. Just as she did not cry when she took Christine and drove away from the church eight-five days ago. For the last eighty-five days, she did not so much as shed a single tear. She took the pain she felt over her decisions, the anguish at knowing that she had hurt Booth deeply, and did what she had done so many times with the pains of her life; compartmentalized them. In time, she would deal with her sorrow. For now, like the last eighty-five days, she had to concentrate on their survival.

It had become a fairly consistent routine. Brennan and Christine had rotated between a number of different locations; last month it was a small secluded house off of Myrtle Beach in South Carolina; before then an abandoned bed-and-breakfast near Lynchburg, Virginia; currently an old cabin in the northwest mountains of Georgia. From time to time, she would receive a call on her disposable cellular phone from Max, the only person in the world who knew that phone's number, informing her it was time to move. Within two days, he would arrive with a new rental car for her. They would drive to the new location and he would take the older car, presumably returning it to the nearest rental outlet. From time to time she would change her appearance subtly; her previous experiences with Booth going undercover as Tony and Roxie or Boris and Natasha proved to be useful. Her hair was currently lightened to a pale blond with peroxide, but her darker brown roots had already begun to show. In South Carolina she had worn a red wig. Hiding her identity behind a succession of aliases, forged drivers licenses and altered appearances. All in the interests of survival.

"Survival" being the key word. She was surviving, not living. This furtive existence as a fugitive was not by any definition a life. Certainly not a life she wanted to pass down to Christine. She could not call it "living" until the nightmare was over, until Pelant was securely behind bars and she was back in Washington DC. Back in the home she and Booth had created.

_Assuming he'll still have me after all I put him through,_ she thought remorsefully and not for the first time.

Once she determined that Christine had drunk her fill, she removed the baby's mouth from her breast, and placed her in the crib she had set up in the cabin's living room. As Christine slowly drifted into a deep slumber, a familiar pang pierced Brennan's heart as she observed her daughter, seeing something of Booth's features in this perfect child they brought into the world. "Sleep well, my beautiful girl," she whispered sorrowfully as she absently adjusted her top to fully cover herself again. "And may you grow up strong, but never impervious. That is no way to live."

The sun was slowly sinking behind the mountain ranges to the west, and she had already turned on the lamps by the sofa. The cabin, while sparsely decorated, at least came with modern plumbing and electricity, as well as a fairly large solar-powered water heater. Some minor creature comforts, even if she didn't dare turn on a computer or use a land-line phone. She took her seat on the couch and attempted to relax her troubled mind, listening to birdsong and the breeze rustling through the oak leaves outside.

Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of a car motor, faint and distant at first, but slowly growing louder, closer. For a moment she wondered if her father was driving up to talk to her. But he was always fastidious about calling her before meeting with her. Brennan could feel her pulse elevate as a sickening anxiety began to overtake her; had the FBI finally caught up with her? Would she be arrested? Would she lose her daughter for good?

The car pulled up to a stop in front of the cabin, the driver turning off the motor. Brennan stood beside the door, her back flush with the wall behind her. She didn't dare move, lest her presence inside the cabin be revealed to the driver. She glanced around the room, seeking avenues of escape. She could make it to the back entrance to the kitchen and out the back. But there was no way she could grab Christine and make it to the car if there was more than one federal agent driving up. "Looks like the chase is over, Christine," she whispered to her sleeping daughter.

Suddenly a different sound filled the air outside. A sound Brennan was not expecting. A guitar riff.

A very familiar guitar riff. Followed by vocal accompaniment:

_"Well, I'm hot blooded, check it and see.  
I got a fever of a hundred and three  
Come on baby, do you do more than dance?  
I'm hot blooded, I'm HOT BLOODED!"_

"Foreigner?" Brennan wondered aloud. A thought took root in her mind; the only person who would associate Brennan with that song was..."No way," she muttered as she dared to open the door and look outside.

The Toyota was parked in front of the cabin, a stereo CD player set on the hood and blaring away. Her father was leaning against the hood of the SUV, talking with—

"BOOTH?" she shouted as she stepped onto the porch, blinking in the bright sunlight. "Booth? What are you doing here? And you," she turned to her father, confusion furrowing her brow, "why didn't you call me to let me know you were coming?"

"You forgot, Tempe," Max replied, grinning hugely, "no cell phone towers in the area, so I couldn't reach you that way. And I knew you wouldn't risk answering a landline, not if it could still be traced. Besides, I thought you should hear this in person."

Booth turned to Brennan, a knowing smile splitting his face. "Wow, Bones," he quipped. "I heard that you had gone blond, but I had no idea!" He turned off the CD player, reached into the passenger side front window and pulled out a copy of the Washington Post. Walking toward Brennan he unfolded the newspaper. "Max told me you had cut yourself off from the outside world, so I guess you didn't hear the good news. Read it." He held up the newspaper, displaying the headline; "ARRESTS MADE IN MURDER OF FBI AGENT".

Brennan closed the gap between herself and Booth and took the paper from his hand. The sun hadn't fully set so there was still just enough light to read. She scanned the paper eagerly, reading some passages aloud; "'Agent Flynn confessed to aiding Christopher Pelant the murders of Deputy Director Andrew Hacker and Ethan Sawyer'... 'Pelant was arrested by federal agents'... 'Cullen announced that Dr. Temperance Brennan, formerly a prime suspect in Sawyer's murder, has been cleared of all charges'..."

"We nailed the bastard," Booth announced. "Once I realized Flynn was working for him, the Squints went over his computer systems and found all the evidence they needed to bring Pelant in and clear your name."

"It's over, Tempe," Max announced, a relieved smile crossing his face. "It's time to come home."

"H-home?" Brennan stammered breathlessly, the word sounding almost alien in her ears as she said it.

"Home, Bones," Booth assured her gently. "You and me, our daughter, back home. Remember? 'The Mighty Hut'?"

"Home..." She breathed the word again, letting it linger in her mouth, almost as though tasting it. She sensed that the proper emotional response to this development should be relief, even elation; she was no longer a fugitive, no longer hunted by the FBI. Her life was her own again. She could return to her career as a forensic anthropologist. She could collaborate with Angela on a new novel. She could rebuild the life she had created for herself, the life Pelant tried to destroy. The life she so desperately wanted to share with Booth.

But as she looked at Booth, fear kept her eyes from meeting his. Fear of rejection, fear of having failed his trust in her, fear of losing him forever. Her eyes staring intently at Booth's shoes, she whispered almost inaudibly, "I'm so sorry, Booth. I know I've given you every reason to hate me—"

"Hey," Booth gently placed the palm of his right hand on her cheek, lifting her head slowly so his eyes could look into hers. "I could never hate you. It's okay, Bones."

"It's not okay," she replied automatically, her voice growing louder and more desperate with each word. "I let you down, I betrayed your trust in me, I kept you away from your daughter—I ran away—I ran—"

The floodgates opened. The tears came, the tears she refused to shed for the last eighty-five days, and they would not stop. Booth instinctively wrapped his strong arms around her shoulders, letting her collapse into his embrace as she sobbed with wracking gasps on his shoulder. He whispered gentle assurances in her ear and stroked the skin just below the nape of her neck with his fingers.

Max stood by the SUV, watching intently as Booth comforted his daughter. He remembered some years ago, while he and Brennan were still estranged. He had asked Booth about their relationship and was surprised that he had not yet slept with her. Surprised and a little bit disappointed. He had told him, "You're a good man. And I want that for her." Once again, as he saw the tenderness with which Booth treated his daughter, he again saw proof that he was right about Booth. He was a good man. And Max Keenan knew at that instant that he would forever regret keeping him and Brennan apart for even a moment, let alone nearly three months.

Finally Brennan was able to control her inner turmoil enough to speak at least somewhat coherently. "I don't understand," she groaned, her voice hoarse from sobbing. "I thought that you would be angry with me for taking Christine."

Booth looked into her gray-blue eyes, still shining with residual tears. "Yes," he answered, a faint sorrow tingeing his voice. "I was angry with you. Furious, even. A small part of me still is." He held up his left hand, displaying his thumb and forefinger less than a centimeter apart. "About this much," he smirked slightly. "But more than I was angry, I was afraid. I was scared for you, for Christine, scared that Pelant would go after you while you were on the run, that the Feds might find you and start shooting first without even bothering to ask questions later. Then I remembered who you are. Temperance Brennan, the toughest, smartest woman I've ever known. I know that you would move Heaven and Earth...that's a metaphor," he hastily added as he noted the puzzled expression that crossed her face, "it means that you would do anything and everything you could do to keep our daughter safe. The only reason I'm still a little angry is that you didn't confide in me before you left. That you _couldn't_ confide in me."

Brennan hung her head in sorrow. "No Booth, I could not confide in you," she confessed. "As long as I was wanted by the authorities, I could not burden you with my decision. Certainly not at the risk of you being interrogated regarding my whereabouts, or compelled to testify against me if it came to a trial."

Booth smirked knowingly; even during the ordeal they both went through over the last few months, she could still be so damn rational. "Did you really think that I might betray you, Bones?" he asked, almost sadly. After all these years, he sometimes sensed that there was a part of her that would still not fully trust him, some secret region of her heart and mind that he could never touch.

"No," she answered plainly. "Quite the contrary; I knew that you would also, to borrow your metaphor, 'move Heaven and Earth' to protect Christine and me. You would lie to your superiors, sacrifice your FBI career, discard everything you've built for yourself, even risk a prison sentence if you felt it would keep us safe. That was why I chose not to confide in you. You would have destroyed everything you built for yourself over the course of your life, and I could not be party to that." Lifting her head to again gaze into Booth's eyes, Brennan declared in a voice of calm determination, "I know that you would never betray me. Don't ever think for a second that I would let you betray yourself."

Booth regarded Brennan's quiet strength, her calm grace under pressure, with a renewed awe and admiration. Even amid her inner turmoil, she was still thinking about him, protecting him as fiercely as she protected Christine. "Bones," his voice turned low and level with a quiet solemnity. "I need you to promise me something. Promise me that if, God forbid, we ever find ourselves in a situation like this, you'll talk to me before making this kind of unilateral decision." Brennan began to open her mouth to speak, but Booth lifted a hand to silence her. "I mean it, Bones. We're a team. We've always been stronger as a team. Any decision that affects us, that affects Christine, we need to make together."

"But what if there is no other option than for one of us to run away?" Brennan asked, her voice raw with emotion.

"Then we run together," Booth replied without hesitation. "Because I'm never letting you get away from me again. And who knows? Between the two of us we've got a better chance of coming up with a third alternative neither of us considered. But I need to know that if it comes down to it, you'll confide in me. Can you promise me that, Bones?"

Brennan looked longingly at the man she loved, seeing the plea in his eyes, the desperate question on his face. She could think of any number of sound, logical arguments against making such a promise:

_We can't predict the future. _

_We could be separated by hundreds of miles if we found ourselves in a similar predicament. _

_Either of us could be physically or mentally incapacitated._

But the earnestness of his tone and the questing gaze he gave her, they silenced all her arguments completely. She accepted without reservation that there was only one possible answer to his question; "I promise, Booth," Brennan answered, her words a whispered vow. "Whatever happens from now on, we face it together." For the first time in months, Booth smiled, a warm and genuine expression of relief, joy and gratitude that warmed Brennan's heart to its core.

"Bones," Booth spoke in a calm, level tone, "when we get back to D. C., you and I have a lot to talk about. And as much as we both dread the prospect, Sweets will very likely be involved in a great deal of it." Brennan rolled her eyes dramatically, eliciting a soft chuckle from Booth. Resuming his serious tone, he continued; "So I'm going to say this to you now, Bones..." He kissed her forehead gently before he spoke; "You did nothing wrong. You protected Christine. You kept her safe, away from Pelant and Flynn. Considering that Flynn planned to have you and Christine killed and make it look like you killed her and then committed suicide-by-cop, I am eternally grateful that you and Christine stayed off his radar as long as you did. So I'll repeat myself; you did nothing wrong. And over the years I will repeat that sentence from time to time, whenever I think you need to hear it."

"Booth, I..." she began a feeble protest, which he gently silenced by placing his finger on her lips.

"No, Bones," he whispered solemnly. "You..." He kissed her forehead again. "Did..." He kissed the bridge of her nose. "Nothing..." The tip of her nose. "Wrong." He kissed her lips, tentatively at first, but as her lips responded to his it built up its own heat and momentum. Her hands instinctively found their way around the back of his head, and she reveled in the sensation of his hair beneath her fingers, their bodies pressed together, her mouth seeking out his...

A sudden faint wailing issued from within the cabin, causing the reunited lovers to slowly break off their embrace. "Christine," Brennan breathed slowly. "Would you like to see her?"

A joyous grin spread across Booth's face. "More than anything," he replied. Max nodded silently in agreement as he approached the couple. Brennan led her partner and her father into the cabin, and Booth immediately turned toward the folding crib in the living room. Brennan lifted the infant in her arms and rocked her slowly, as Christine's crying wail ebbed and softened, while Booth looked at his daughter for the first time in nearly three months. "Bones," he whispered with newfound awe, "may I..." he added, gesturing toward the infant in her arms.

Brennan smiled knowingly. "Of course, Booth," she nodded, slowly handing Christine over to him.

He gingerly cradled the baby in his arms, a transcendent smile spreading across his face. "Hello, Christine," he cooed, half laughing, half crying, as he gently rocked Christine in his arms. "It's okay, sweetheart, it's gonna be okay. We'll be going home soon, that's right," he assured her in hushed whispers, allowing his softly spoken reassurances to wash over his daughter. "You'll get to be in your own bed, with the mobile that Parker made for you overhead, yes you will." Christine cooed and gurgled happily, prompting Booth's throat to tighten with raw emotion. "You've gotten so big, haven't you? Oh, my precious girl..." he murmured, joyful tears welling in his eyes as he gently kissed his daughter's cheeks. Max stood next to Booth, leaning forward to silently admire his granddaughter. Eventually, her movements stilled and her eyelids closed as she drifted back into slumber.

"She started teething two weeks ago," Brennan announced as Booth carefully returned her to her crib. "I...I haven't weaned her onto a bottle yet."

"Really?" Booth arched his eyebrow slightly in surprise.

"It just didn't seem right," Brennan admitted, her voice developing a slight hitch. "Not without you there, Booth. I did not want to rob you of any more of her childhood than I already had."

"Tempe," Max turned to his daughter, "you shouldn't have waited. There was no guarantee that Booth and Cam's team would have taken down Pelant so quickly. You might have been on the run for several more months."

"I know that, Dad," she responded, the faint melancholy in her voice tinged by something vaguely akin to hope. "I chose to trust that Booth and the Medico-Legal team would uncover the required evidence to prove my innocence and Pelant's guilt. And as I knew it would be, my trust was justified."

"Bones," Booth's voice took on a teasing tone that Brennan found that she missed terribly during her self-imposed exile, "if I didn't know you any better, I'd say that you were experiencing faith!"

"Nothing of the sort," Brennan insisted. "I merely made a logical extrapolation of likely outcomes based on years of proven experience."

Max nodded knowingly at Booth. "Faith," he said noncommittally. Brennan rolled her eyes as her father and the man she loved shared a chuckle at her expense, before returning their attention to Christine as she slept soundly. "She looks so peaceful when she sleeps," he whispered solemnly, almost reverently. "Probably slept better than any of us over the last three months."

"I had just put her down to sleep," Brennan observed as she flashed Booth a mock-accusatory glare, "when _someone_ started playing 'Hot Blooded' by Foreigner at a high volume."

Booth chuckled again, saying, "Hey, it got your attention, Bones." He gently placed his right arm around her shoulders, and Brennan instinctively leaned into his side, her head resting comfortably against his chest. "I was going to stand under your window holding up the boom box and playing 'In Your Eyes' by Peter Gabriel," he added, "but I didn't think you'd get the movie reference."

She recognized that gentle tone in his voice, that tone he reserved for when he would tease her about her lack of knowledge of popular culture without being condescending to her. The tone always assured her that she didn't need to be in on the joke to laugh at it, and he would not think less of her if she did. The tone always invited her to let her guard down, to surrender her imperviousness for awhile and simply take pleasure in being human, in being alive. And not having the desire to do anything else, she did just that.

Wrapping her arms firmly around Booth's waist, she leaned closer into his body, inhaling the scent of him, luxuriating in the feel of him, of his strong arms around her shoulders. "I missed you so much, Booth," she confided, tears again forming in her eyes. "You have no idea how many times I considered abandoning this course of action, returning Christine to you and turning myself in."

"Believe me, Bones," Booth murmured in assurance, "as much as I missed you both, given the circumstances I'm glad you didn't." Casting a glance toward Brennan's father, he added, "You didn't tell her, did you Max?"

"Tell me what?" Brennan lifted her head slightly, her eyes hitting Max's with a questing gaze.

Max shook his head sadly as he regarded his daughter. "Your friends at the Jeffersonian found surveillance bugs in your home. They had the place covered; living room, bedroom, nursery..."

Brennan gasped audibly as her father's words sank in. "Pelant was in our home," she breathed, a new terror pricking at her like a million needles. She immediately turned toward her slumbering daughter and shuddered. "Christine," she whispered, her voice leaden with fear. "He was with her—"

"Not if Cam and the Squints are right," Booth assured her, "which they usually are in these matters. As near as we can figure, Pelant and Flynn were in our house while we were at the church, at Christine's baptism, just before you went on the lam. So at least he never saw or heard Christine. Or caught us in any of our, ahem, more intimate moments."

Brennan shuddered again at Booth's words. "I assure you, Booth," she replied gravely, "as much as the thought of Pelant listening in to us having intercourse disgusts me, it doesn't frighten me as much as the thought of him being anywhere near our daughter." Pulling away slightly but still remaining in the comforting circle of Booth's arms, Brennan added, "But why Flynn, Booth? Why did he betray his position in the FBI? His own country?"

Booth shook his head ruefully. "As near as I could figure from what I researched about him, he headed up a platoon in Afghanistan in '07, and most of his people were killed by snipers in an ambush. He alone survived, but he started blaming the command chain above him for supplying faulty intel that he claimed led to the ambush. Later he started visiting a few anti-government websites and online forums. Some of the forum posts we traced to him, the ones that connected him to Pelant, he expressed his belief that we shouldn't leave Afghanistan with the job 'half-done'. After that, there was a car-bombing, and he was shipped stateside. It wasn't until yesterday when we found out that he he was working with Pelant, and that he had staged the car-bombing to distrac the DOD while Pelant shut off their grid."

"So he blamed the US government, for the death of his platoon?" Brennan asked. "And that's why he turned traitor?"

"He blamed the government, the Army, quote-unquote 'radical Islam'," Booth mused, "Maybe all three, who knows? Anyway, according to Cullen, after he returned to the States there were some complaints against Flynn in his personal file from other agents; apparently he tended to use ethnic slurs around them. Especially Muslim slurs." Pausing for a moment as a memory hit him, he added, "I think one of your interns complained about him too. What was his name, the guy who acted like he was just off the boat so people wouldn't give him a hard time about his faith?"

"Arastoo Vasiri," Brennan identified him. "Yes, I remember him."

"Yeah, that's the guy," Booth nodded. "Apparently Dr. Vasiri was working under Flynn for a couple of months while I was serving as a consultant in Afghanistan and you were at that site in the Malarkey Islands..."

"Maluku," she corrected him automatically, smiling inwardly; she was aware that he would intentionally mispronounce the Maluku Islands whenever he mentioned them, simply to get a reaction out of her. It was a game he played, an amusement of his, one of a thousand details that meant nothing in and of themselves but, taken as a whole, formed the identity of Seeley Booth. And she wouldn't have him any other way.

"Yeah, whatever," Booth said somewhat hurriedly. "Anyway, according to Vasiri, Flynn made a few offensive remarks about Islam, and Vasiri wasn't the only one to complain. There was never enough corroborating evidence to make any harassment charges stick, but his attitude regarding Muslims was more or less known to the Bureau. Maybe he thought the US should stay permanently in the Middle East, or just nuke the region out of existence, I dunno and I don't care. In the end, he was a hater and Pelant fed his hatred. The Bureau's better off without him."

"And certainly you and I will be safer," Brennan agreed, "along with our friends and family, with Flynn and Pelant in prison for the rest of their lives. I'm just so relieved that this nightmare is finally behind us."

"Hey, you're preaching to the choir there, Bones." He ran soothing fingers through her pale yellow hair and gently kissed her brow. "But none of that matters now. You and Christine are safe, you're coming home and we can get back to the business of living happily ever after."

Brennan lifted her head again to look at Booth, regarding him with her customary world-weary pessimism. "We both know that fairy tales aren't real, Booth," she reminded him soberly.

Booth flashed her that trademark goofy grin of his, the one that seemed to cover his entire face. "I know, Bones. But that doesn't mean happy endings can't happen. I say we live happily ever after or die trying."

Brennan chuckled lightly at Booth's affirmation. As was often the case, his words were wise in their way. "I can accept that," she declared, leaning again into his embrace.

After a few moments more of their seeming obliviousness to anyone or anything outside of their embrace, they heard a distinct attention-getting cough, and turned toward the older man trying to get their attention. "Tempe," Max addressed his daughter. "You still have the keys to the Dodge, right?"

"Just a second," Brennan said, loosening herself from Booth's embrace and retrieving the keys from the end-table near the sofa. "Here." She passed the keys to her father.

"Thanks, Tempe. I'll drive the Dodge back to the rental outlet and head back for DC, while you two take Booth's Sequoia back home."

"How long have the two of you been driving, Dad?"

"About 10 hours or so," Max answered. "We drove in shifts. Booth had the last four hours."

"I hope you aren't planning on driving all the way to DC at night. It is starting to get dark out."

"There's a hotel about 30 miles east of here. I'll crash there for the night. What about you two?"

Booth and Brennan turned toward their daughter, still slumbering peacefully in her crib. "Christine's down for the night," Booth observed quietly. "We can stay here for the night and get a fresh start in the morning." Brennan nodded in quiet agreement.

Within ten minutes, they had unloaded the baby carrier from Brennan's rental car, and Max was ready to drive away. Booth and Brennan stood near the front porch to make their goodbyes. "I guess I'll see you two in DC in a couple of days," Max announced as he opened the driver's side door to the rental car.

Brennan abruptly strode toward her father and embraced him fiercely. "Thank you, Dad," she whispered fervently. "For helping keep Christine and me safe. For everything."

Max returned the embrace just as fiercely. "I'm just glad it worked out the way it did, Tempe," he murmured in response.

After a few moments, they disengaged the hug, as Booth approached Brennan's father. Max swallowed hard as he saw Booth's jaw set in a tight "strictly business" mask, the same look he saw when Booth arrested him years ago. "Two things, Max," he growled. "First, you put me through this again and I'll put you in traction. And second..." his face softened and a slight smile formed at his lips as he held out his hand. "Thanks for looking out for them."

"Anytime, Booth," Max answered, accepting the offered handshake. "Take care of my little girl. And yours."

"I will, Max," Booth answered. "Both of them."

Max nodded, satisfied that his daughter and granddaughter were in good hands. Without another word, he stepped into the driver's seat, waved a final farewell, turned the key in the ignition, turned on the headlights and drove away. Booth and Brennan watched in thoughtful silence as the sound of the engine faded into the darkening evening.

As he turned toward Brennan, Booth couldn't help but notice her defensive posture, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes not quite meeting his. He felt a profound melancholy as he appraised her body-language. Oh Bones, do you really believe I would think less of you? You were in a no-win situation, you didn't think you had a choice. It took me a long time but I understand. Please don't go all impervious on me now, Bones.

He decided not to voice his turmoil yet. She needed time. They both did. The last thing she needed was him scaring her off by acting as though they could pick up where they left off. With that resolve, Booth strolled toward Brennan, saying, "Hey, Bones, did you have dinner yet? I had a burger at a Five Guys about two hours back, but if you have anything in the kitchen I could whip up something."

"I appreciate it," Brennan answered, "but I reheated some rice pilaf about an hour ago. I'm fine."

"Good," Booth shrugged. "We'd better get some rest, Bones."

"Booth," Brennan said suddenly as they stepped into the cabin, "were you sleeping on your old leather sofa in the 'man-cave'?"

Booth turned his head quickly toward Brennan. "How did you know...?"

"Your posture," Brennan answered quietly. "Your shoulders are stooped slightly, and your back is curved forward. I suppose that someone who is not as familiar with your body as I am wouldn't notice."

"Can't pull one over on you, huh, Bones?" Booth quipped slightly, taking his seat on the nearby sofa, across from the crib where his daughter continued to sleep soundly.

For the last three months, Brennan both longed for and dreaded this moment, where she would be reunited with the man she had loved for so many years. She imagined so many disparate possible outcomes to their reunion. Would he sweep her in his arms and ravage her with kisses? Would he coldly reject her? Would he want to maintain the family they had created together? Would he take her to court to insure she never saw Christine again? She remembered the last time she was on the receiving end of his anger, after his abrupt break-up with Hannah Burley, when he seemed to be angry at the entire female gender. He managed to overcome his ire over time, but all Hannah did was reject him. She did not steal his daughter from him. Not knowing what to expect, Brennan steeled herself for the worst. She dared to look into his eyes, half-expecting scorn, contempt, hatred for her reflected in their depths.

There was a haunted quality to his eyes, as though he had emerged victorious from some terrible inner struggle, but not without some cost. She remembered the last time he appeared so haunted to him, so determined; over a year ago, when a vengeful sniper took the life of Vincent Nigel Murray. He had insisted that she stay with him that night; out of some archaic sense of chivalry, she had theorized at the time. But it wasn't archaic, not for Booth. He needed to be able to protect the people who mattered to him. So she did not argue his demand that she stay with him. And when she wept bitterly, mourning Vincent's loss, he was there to comfort her. To let her know that she was not alone in her grief. She smiled inwardly as she remembered that night, when she finally shed the last of her imperviousness and allowed herself to receive Booth's affections and return them to him.

That strange, wonderful night when Christine was first conceived.

Emboldened by those memories, she dared to reach out to him. "Booth," Brennan scolded him tenderly as she sat next to him, her hand reaching for his shoulder, her fingers gently rubbing his trapezius muscles. "You didn't need to sleep on the sofa. You should have stayed in our bedroom."

Booth exhaled a melancholy sigh. "I couldn't, Bones," he admitted, his shoulder automatically leaning toward her hand as she continued her gentle massage. "The bed was just too big without you." Turning to face his partner, he noticed the slight scowl she always got when she didn't fully comprehend one of his turns of phrase. "I know," he added, "it's illogical, the bed was the same size whether you were in it or not, but I kept ending up on my side of the mattress, staring at this empty space where you would normally lie. So I just gave up and slept in the man-cave."

Brennan digested his words, nodding in comprehension. "You are right," she admitted. "It is illogical. But as you and Sweets are fond of reminding me, matters of the heart seldom follow logic. I confess that I did not sleep well since I first turned fugitive. I have grown accustomed to your body next to mine in our bed, and I deeply missed your presence when we were apart."

"At least we don't have to deal with sleeping alone anymore," Booth quipped absently. A faint smile appeared at the corners of Booth's mouth as he spoke, and Brennan inwardly sighed with relief when she recognized that his smile was not merely for her benefit. It occurred to her that he would harbor the same fears regarding whether their reunion would lead to reconciliation. She dared to hope that they might be able to rebuild the love she had endangered by her rash actions.

Booth noticed a brief expression of surprise on Brennan's face and suddenly changed his tone. "Look, Bones, I'm not saying we have to do anything tonight. I mean, I've been driving for hours now, and we've both been through this hellacious experience. All I'm saying is that I want to be next to you tonight, next to the woman I love. We don't have to make lo—er, have intercourse, I guess you'd say, not if you don't want to, but-mmfph..." His rambling sentence was interrupted by a warm and insistent pair of lips, as Brennan's arms wrapped around Booth's shoulders, her fingers tracing along his deltoid muscles.

After a few seconds, Brennan backed away from Booth, her eyes darkening with desire. "No, Booth," she whispered, "I don't want intercourse. With you, it would never again be simply intercourse." She kissed him again for a second, before adding, "Make love to me, Booth. Please."

This time Booth's smile was widespread across his face, and laced with no small lust. "Well, if you insist," he growled as he slowly lifted her off of the sofa. They stumbled toward the bedroom door, unable and unwilling to keep their hands away from each other's bodies, until they finally reached the bed and fell together in an ungainly heap, trading increasingly heated kisses as their hands grappled with buttons and zippers. Cotton, wool and denim cloth were cast aside, revealing warm pliant skin, as caresses grew longer and kisses became more heated.

Later, they fell asleep in each other's arms, the bedsheets twisted around their legs. Tomorrow there would be time for discussion, for laying out a plan for the future. Tonight, for the first time since Christine's baptism, they slept without difficulty, without nightmare, without sorrow.

For the first time in eighty-five days, all was right in their world.

* * *

**_One more chapter and an epilogue to go, gang! I plan to have this story completed before the season premiere. _**


	5. The Affirmations In the Aftermath

_Author's Note: I had wanted to get this one done before the season premiere, but to paraphrase Robert Burns, 'The best-laid schemes o' Feds and Squints gang aft agley'. Hopefully this increasingly lengthy chapter will make up for my tardiness. _

_And thanks to NatesMama and Guest for keeping me honest regarding the 'Marco Polo' line. One of the few episodes I've missed, I'm afraid. I edited the chapter to make that correction. Thanks again._

_This story features the song 'Push' by Sarah McLachlan, and a passage from "The Cat in the Hat" by Dr. Seuss. Again I don't own those._

* * *

Chapter five

The Affirmations in the Aftermath

_"The past and the present are within the field of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard question to answer."_

—_Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Hound of the Baskervilles"_

* * *

Mountain warblers trilled gently outside the window, greeting the day. Early morning sunlight filtered through the bedroom window of the Blue Ridge cabin, casting dappled oak leaf shadows across the bed.

She lay sprawled across the right side of the bed, her body slowly awakening from the first sound sleep she experienced in nearly three months. The warmth of the sun across her face slowly drew her out her pleasant lethargy. She rolled semi-consciously toward the center of the bed, expecting to feel his warm body. She felt nothing but a warm indentation in the mattress next to her, prompting her to open her eyes.

Brennan felt her breath catch in her throat for a moment, as she considered the options. Had last night been a dream? She recalled the events; Booth and her father had arrived at the cabin where she and Christine had been hiding, to inform her that she was no longer wanted by the FBI. Booth assured her that she was free to return home and that he had forgiven her for running away. And after her father had left and they were assured that Christine was sleeping soundly...

She felt a renewed frisson of pleasure along the nerve endings of her skin as she recalled last night.  
And she could clearly smell traces of his shampoo and aftershave in the pillow next to hers, mingled with sweat to create a scent that was uniquely Booth. She then noticed a small scrap of paper on Booth's pillow.

A part of her did not want to read Booth's note, fearing that it was a good-bye letter, that he still harbored anger at her taking Christine away from him, that he would never forgive her for running away. With a growing apprehension, she took the paper in her hands and scanned Booth's characteristic loose-but-still-legible handwriting;

_Hey, Bones,_

_As I write this letter, it is 6:15 a.m. As much as I'd love to stay in bed and watch you sleep or, even better, enjoy another round of 'breaking the laws of physics' like we did last night, I figure the sooner we're on the road the sooner we can get back home and resume our lives together. So I'm taking Christine out for a quick drive to a little grocery store Max and I passed on our way over yesterday, about 20 miles east of here. I'll be back shortly with some muffins and orange juice for breakfast. I already showered, and there's enough hot water left for you to clean up with. We should be back by 7 or so. _

_In case you needed a reminder, I love you more than you know, and plan to spend the rest of my life, starting today, showing you how much._

_With all my (metaphorical) heart, _

_Booth_

Brennan smiled as she rolled on the bed, holding the note close to her chest. An illogical response, she freely admitted to herself, but she did not care. Last night was not a dream. She was free. Booth was with her. Their family had weathered Pelant's efforts to tear them apart. With a lightness that she despaired she would ever feel again less than two days ago, she glanced at the old electric alarm clock on her bedside table, which now read 6:50. She hastily made her way to the cramped bathroom and turned on the hot water for her shower.

When she emerged from the shower, clean and dressed in a pair of navy-blue khakis and a red flannel top, she could hear Booth's voice, singing tunelessly and with abandon. She quietly exited the bathroom and entered the hallway, where she had a clear view of Booth in the kitchen as he placed a cardboard box and a carton of orange juice on the counter. Christine was buckled into a baby carrier strapped around Booth's shoulders and waist, facing her father. Booth bounced her gently across the kitchen floor and selected two plastic tumblers from the cabinet for their juice, crooning happily; "I never thought through love we'd be / Making one as lovely as she / But isn't she lovely, made from love!" Christine cooed happily as her father spun her around in an impromptu dance.

"Marco?"

Booth stopped suddenly, turning toward the voice. Brennan stood in the doorway, smiling as she observed the man she loved with their daughter. "Polo" Glancing around, he added, "You didn't just take a photo of me, did you? I mean, this isn't like the time I was cooking an omelet in the nude, but—"

"Regrettably, I didn't think to bring my camera," Brennan admitted, stepping forward to claim a morning kiss. She meant for the kiss to be a simple peck on the cheek, but Booth placed his hands around Brennan's head, holding her in place, allowing the kiss to deepen. The seconds stretched out one into the next as she reveled in the touch of his lips. Finally disengaging, she commented, "Good thing I remembered my mouthwash."

"Same here," Booth quipped. They held each other for a few moments longer, their daughter sandwiched between them, as Brennan kissed the top of her baby girl's head. "God, I've missed this," Booth breathed happily.

"You missed the threat of my morning breath?" Brennan asked wryly.

Booth raised his eyebrow slightly. "Yeah, I have. 'Cause it was _your_ morning breath." Brennan couldn't help but smile at his observation. "Really, I mean this, the whole family thing, being here with the two most important women in my life. I missed everything about you, Bones. I missed discussing cases with you, having lunch at the Founding Fathers, listening to you 'speaking anthropologically', watching you asleep in our bed...I woke up at about 5:30 am today and just spent a half-hour just watching you sleep." Handing her the tumbler he had just filled, he added, "Just reminding myself how beautiful you are."

"You are a sentimentalist, Booth," Brennan commented wryly as she accepted the offered juice.

"You are just figuring that out?" Booth smirked.

"I have been aware of that fact for some time," Brennan grinned back as she drank her juice. "It has just taken me some years to determine whether I found that trait irritating or attractive."

"Have you made your decision, Dr. Brennan?" Booth teased her as he poured himself a glass of juice.

Brennan favored Booth with a slight glance that somehow managed to be mildly condescending and sexy as hell at the same time. "I believe extensive research is still required for me to make a hypothesis."

"Uh, thank you," Booth groused as he opened the box he brought with him from the bakery, revealing a half-dozen fresh muffins, "I think. Okay, I got almond poppyseed, I got orange-cranberry, I got chocolate chocolate-chip..." Christine began to fuss and squirm in the baby carrier, her wailing gradually increasing in volume. "And I got a cranky daughter on my hands. Easy, baby girl, it's okay, shh, shh, daddy's here."

"Here, Booth," Brennan offered, placing her tumbler on the counter and extending her hands. "It looks like Christine has her daddy's appetite." Booth unbuckled the left shoulder strap, freeing Christine from the harness, and handed his daughter off to her mother. Brennan began to unbutton her top briefly, until she glanced back at Booth. "Forgive me," she admitted with a slight awkwardness in her voice. "I had grown used to doing this in private over the last few months."

"I can go into the living room," Booth offered, "while you, um..."

"No," Brennan smiled warmly. "I've missed sharing moments like this with you." Booth nodded in understanding, as Brennan opened her blouse and gently maneuvered her daughter's face so her mouth latched onto her mother's right nipple and sucked greedily. She made her way to a chair at the dining table and sat down, cradling her feeding daughter. "There are so many things I miss from my life, Booth. You, of course. Being your partner, discussing the details of our cases, spending time with you and Christine after work..." She glanced at Booth with a faintly wicked gleam in her eye. "And I very definitely missed making love with you."

Booth chuckled throatily at Brennan's words. "Believe me, Bones," he half-growled, "the feeling is mutual."

"Thank you," Brennan smiled. "Of course, I also miss the Jeffersonian, working in the lab, talking with Angela...and Italian food. Remember just after Christine was born and you treated me to the baked ziti in marinara at Lipari's?"

"Ramen noodles not doing it for you, huh?" Booth commented as he glanced at his watch. "Tell ya what. We head out of here 'round 8 or 8:30, we'll be in DC around 7 pm or so."

"I don't know if we should drive for so long," Brennan interrupted. "Not with Christine, at any rate. It's not like we need to be home right away, is it?"

"Yeah, you're probably right," Booth conceded. "Maybe we can find a bed-and-breakfast somewhere near Charlottesville. Then tomorrow, when we get back to DC, what say we go to Lipari's and pick up a big to-go order and bring it home with us? Maybe swing by the Trader Joe's in Arlington and pick up some romaine and some dressing for a salad."

"An excellent idea," Brennan mused. "Maybe some minestrone, followed by linguini with sautéed mushrooms. If you want something with chicken or sausage for yourself, of course, I won't have any problems."

"Actually, they got a new dish on the menu," Booth suggested. "It's a butternut squash ravioli in browned butter and sage sauce with pine nuts and shredded Parmesan."

"Mmm, sounds wonderful." Brennan paused slightly as her daughter had stopped suckling. She removed the infant's mouth from her breast, located a paper towel and placed it over her shoulder, and lifted Christine up to her shoulder, gently patting her back to encourage her to burp. "When did they add that to the menu?"

"About two months ago, I guess," Booth admitted. "Hodgins and Angela took me there last month. I guess they were worried about me going stir crazy, what with my suspension and being taken off the Pelant case and...well, everything else."

Brennan paused as she let his words sift through her mind. He did not want to dredge up the past, to burden her with his grief. She knew him perhaps better than she knew anyone living. She knew that he would try to shoulder the pain, the anger and fear that he felt over the last three months by himself, to "man up" as he would say. "Booth," she said levelly, "I want you to know that I regret having caused you such anxiety."

Booth sensed her voice shifting to a more professional demeanor as her shoulders stiffened. He recognized her body language as indicating that she was closing herself off. "Bones," he slowly approached her, touching her cheek with a reassuring hand, "you did nothing wrong."

Brennan instinctively leaned into her partner's hand. He had promised last night that he would repeat that sentiment from time to time should he feel that she needed to hear it, and evidently he felt that time had come. "I know you mean those words, Booth," she replied, her voice tinged with remorse, "and intellectually I agree. But emotionally, there's a small part of my psyche that feels as though I had betrayed you. That I made my decision to turn fugitive based on fear rather than reason."

"I know," Booth sat next to Brennan, taking her left hand in his, gently stroking her palm. "And in the end, you chose to do whatever it would take to keep Chrissy and yourself safe. So as far as I'm concerned, that makes you not just the smartest and most beautiful woman I've ever known, but also the bravest."

Brennan quietly sipped her orange juice, let go of Booth's hand and selected an almond poppyseed muffin from the box. "If I was so brave, why did I feel like a coward?"

Booth shrugged. "I seem to recall that one of your favorite movie actors said, _'_Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway'."

Brennan smirked ruefully. "Stagecoach," she whispered, identifying the movie. "You remembered."

"Of course I did," Booth answered. "And the point is that you saddled up. The Duke would have been proud...pilgrim." He spoke the last word in a vague impersonation of John Wayne's voice, causing Brennan to chuckle.

"Still," Brennan admitted, "in some small way, it still feels as though I was running away from you. From us." Taking a bite out of her muffin, she added, "I'm certain that you have noticed that I had become quite skilled at running away, especially where you and I were concerned. Like when I took my sabbatical at Maluku. Rather than deal with the possibility pursuing the long-term relationship you had asked of me outside the Hoover Building, I ran away."

"You were scared, Bones," Booth replied gently. "I understand that. Besides, I was running away too, y'know. You ran to Maluku, I ran to Afghanistan. Then I kept running back to Hannah."

"Weren't you in love with Hannah?" Brennan's words were not an accusation, merely a query.

Booth shook his head. "Not really, though it took me a while to wrap my thick head around that concept."

Brennan looked at Booth blankly. "I don't know what that means."

Booth had to smile; he even missed her saying that familiar sentence. "It means that it took me some time to admit the truth to myself. I wasn't in love with Hannah. I was in love with the idea of Hannah. I was in love with being in love with someone. Turning my proposal down was probably the smartest thing she had done since we first met. Not to mention the way I blew off you and the rest of the Jeffersonian when Hannah and I were together. In retrospect it's a minor miracle that Angela didn't tear me a new one over the way I treated all of you." Brennan nodded silently at Booth's statement. While his turn of phrase gave her pause, the tone of his voice made his meaning clear; there was a great deal of friction between Booth and the Medico-Legal lab that year as he distanced himself from them in his newfound relationship with Hannah.

Booth continued; "And I was hardly a sweetheart to be around when we split up either. Angry at you, the squints, the female gender in general—" He took a swig of orange juice and backtracked for a moment. "No, that's not true, not really. I was mainly angry at myself for not seeing it clearly. Hannah and I didn't have a future. I kept saying that I was trying to move on, but in the end all I was doing was running away." Turning to face Brennan, he could clearly feel her love and concern radiating from her. "And in the end, my stupidity nearly cost us, well, us. We can't let it get this far again, Bones. We need to stop running away."

"I concur," Brennan answered. "I have no desire to be apart from you for such a protracted period of time ever again." Leaning forward in her seat, she placed her free hand over Booth's shoulder, gently drawing him into a shared embrace. He let his left hand fall gently on her back, while his right hand stroked Christine's face.

It was at this moment when Christine began to wail loudly, shocking Booth and Brennan out of their intimate moment. "Hey, Chrissy," Booth murmured, his lips brushing the top of his daughter's head. "It's me, your daddy. I know it's been awhile..."

"I think the problem is more immediate, Booth," Brennan observed.

"Why do you say...?" Booth began, until he noticed a pungent odor. "Whoa, never mind," he added suddenly. "Here," he offered, holding out his hands. "You fed her, I'll go change her."

"I'll go make sure I'm packed," Brennan added as Booth made his way to the living room, holding his daughter at arm's length. "There's a diaper bag by the sofa."

"On it, Bones," he answered. "And we'll take the rest of the muffins with us so we can have a snack on the road." He found himself smiling as he prepared to change his daughter. Even with this less than glamorous task before him he had to smile.

He had his family back.

* * *

The drive to DC was a subdued affair. Initially Booth took the wheel while Brennan sat in the back seat with Christine. As the Sequoia threaded along the tree-lined lengths of Interstate 81, Brennan told Booth some of the details regarding her time apart from him. How she had lived from day to day, her only priority Christine's protection. "Oddly," she admitted, "the experience was not as terrifying or as exciting as I imagined it would be. Mostly I kept myself hidden, out of the public eye, disguising myself when it was necessary for me to go out in public." She paused to collect her thoughts, and her voice lowered slightly as she continued. "Apart from an occasional dread if I noticed a police officer or heard a siren in the distance, the only real fear I experienced was that, once this whole ordeal was over, that I would not be welcomed back home. That I may have hurt you beyond your capacity for forgiveness. After all, you severed all contact with Hannah, simply because she turned down a proposal."

"Never happen, Bones," Booth answered, and Brennan felt her burden lighten considerably as she could feel the sincerity in his words. "I wasn't committed to Hannah, not nearly as much as I am to you. I've invested too much of myself in us to ever give you up without a fight." Sensing a need to lighten the conversation, Booth added, "So, just curious, when did you go blond?"

"It was around the second week after I became a fugitive," she explained, "that I started applying peroxide to my hair. I hope my appearance did not shock you." She hesitated for a second. "So how do I look to you as a blonde? Just out of curiosity?"

Booth thought for a moment, "it's a different look, but I could get used to it."

"Well don't," Brennan admonished lightly. "As far as I'm concerned, my hair cannot return to its natural shade soon enough."

Booth shrugged his shoulders, his eyes returning to the road ahead. "It's your hair, Bones. Whatever you do with it, I'll always think you're beautiful."

"Hmmf," Brennan groused dismissively. After a second's pause, she added, "Thanks." The miles stretched ahead as they traveled on in companionable silence.

"So," Booth asked at one point of the drive, "who was that British guy you met?"

Brennan, whose attention was drawn toward their napping daughter, shot her head up at his words. "British guy? How did you know...?"

"He called me up a few days ago," he admitted. "Said he was helping a stranded motorist, and that you told him about the Pelant case."

Brennan sat in silence for a full ten seconds before speaking; "The only name he gave me was Holmes. He saw through my disguise so effectively I feared for a moment that he was a Federal agent sent to arrest me. When he assured me that he had no interest in bring me to the Feds, I guess I broke down. If my father learned that I had confided in a total stranger while I was supposed to be hiding, he would never let me hear the end of it."

"Your secret's safe with me, Bones," Booth answered. "Besides, he ended up asking me a few questions about Pelant. Enough to get me thinking about the case from a different angle. He made me realize that, even with all his computer savvy, all Pelant really had going for him was simple misdirection. Thanks to him, I was able to discover the connection between Pelant and Flynn." With a mischievous tone in his voice, he added, "Makes you think, don't it?"

"Do not even consider that line of thought," Brennan warned him, although her mildly teasing expression did not escape Booth as he glanced at her in the rearview. "I still refuse to believe in your concept of 'fate'. Mr. Holmes' arrival was merely a fortuitous happenstance."

"Sure, Bones," she could see his smug grin in the mirror. "Pure serendipity."

"Five syllables. Impressive."

"Yeah, I know lots of big words."

Brennan tried to glare condescendingly at Booth but was unable to look overly stern while she giggled at his goofy smile. She settled for gazing contentedly through the mirror at the face of her lover and partner. Once again she realized that Booth was her constant reminder that faith and intelligence were not mutually exclusive. While not a scientist like herself, Booth was certainly not an idiot; his training as a soldier, a sniper and a detective, along with his nearly matchless ability to read people, had served him well over the years, and the pooling of their mutual talents had helped solve the most heinous of crimes. _Indeed,_ Brennan gladly conceded, _were it not for his many talents, Christine and I would still be on the run today. Or dead._

As much as Brennan regarded theology as the antithesis of reason, she recognized that Booth was a man who truly lived his faith. His values, his morals, his very person, were informed by his Catholic belief system. And whatever contradictions she saw as being inherent in Christianity, she was forced to concede that his faith made him the man she loved. Which was why she had no problem with Christine being baptized; she had no doubt that exposure to Booth's faith would be of benefit to their daughter.

And it was not that Brennan was a person without faith. Despite her reactions to Booth and Max teasing her on the subject the previous night, she did indeed have faith. She had faith in the tangible, the visible and the quantifiable. She believed in the evidence of her senses, in the testing of hypotheses, in the scientific method. She believed fervently that two plus two equaled four, the Earth rotated at roughly 1070 miles an hour, and the adult human body contained 206 bones. Her faith was absolute that force was equal to mass times acceleration, the velocity of a falling body increased at a rate of thirty-two feet per second per second and energy was equal to mass times the speed of light squared. These were her creeds, the tenets of her faith. She did not believe the soul, or in Heaven and Hell. Or in fate.

But Booth believed in these things. And she believed in Booth. So perhaps they were not as far-fetched as she believed.

_After all, until a few years ago, I didn't believe in the concept of 'being in love'. And now look at me. Firmly, utterly devoted to Seeley Joseph Booth._

After a few more similar thoughts, Brennan announced, "I did something else that I have no doubt my father would object to over the last three months."

"What's that?"

"The night after I left DC," she began slowly, "I made a cash purchase of an inexpensive digital camera, some batteries and a 16 gigabyte SD-card. I had recalled how upset you were when I had a sonogram taken during my fifth month of pregnancy without informing you, and it had occurred to me that in our absence you would miss a number of milestones in Christine's development. Dad warned me that I should not take a camera or recording device with me, for fear of taking a picture that might incriminate me if I should be caught. However, I decided that the risk was worth it. So every day we were on the run, I took photos of Christine, in order to capture her development. I have the camera in my purse. When we get home, we can download the SD card on our main computer and your laptop. I know it's not the same as being there, but I suppose that it's the next best thing."

Booth swallowed down the sudden lump that was developing in his throat, and Brennan noticed his eyes appeared glassy as she saw them through the rearview. At length he spoke; "Bones, I gotta say—thank you. That means a lot, really. I guess I can only imagine how hard things were for you and Chrissy."

"Just as I can only estimate the anguish you experienced," Bones admitted. "I only hope that Christine's pictures can in some small way compensate for what we've lost over these last three months."

"Bones," Booth spoke warmly and with all the love he possessed, "you and Christine are safe, we're back together and we're on our way home. Anything else is gravy." He paused and glanced at Brennan in the mirror for a second. "Uh, isn't this when you say, 'I don't know what that means,'?"

"No, that one I understood," Brennan answered. "And I concur."

Booth chuckled in wholehearted agreement as the miles sped by. He and Brennan continued to talk about everything and nothing, restoring the precious bond that had been damaged by Pelant's actions. Dreams were shared, news was related, jokes were told, tears were shed. And two souls separated by a terrible ordeal were truly reunited.

* * *

By the time they made the exit to Charlottesville, Virginia, Christine had begun to fuss loudly. "We'd better find a place for the night," Brennan recommended, "and finish the trip home tomorrow."

"Good idea," Booth agreed, glancing at the signs ahead as the sun began to set behind their vehicle. "Exit 221 ahead, that'll take us straight to Charlottesville."

"Excellent," Brennan enthused. "There are a number of very nice inns there. I visited there during a book-signing a few years ago." After a pause she added ruefully, "Unfortunately I left my credit cards and checkbook in a safe deposit box in DC before I turned fugitive."

"I think I can spring for a four-star inn this once, Bones," Booth assured her. "Maybe a nice dinner somewhere? I promised you Italian, right?"

"There should be a decent Italian take-out place around here," Brennan suggested.

"You sure?"

Brennan nodded. "I just want to spend some time alone with you and Christine. In fact, about two hours back, while you were refueling the Sequoia, I called up Angela. I informed her that we were coming home, and naturally she was very excited. But I didn't want her to wait for us when we get back home tomorrow. Knowing her, she'd have the rest of the staff waiting for us to throw a surprise party, celebrating my triumphant return."

"Yeah, that sounds like Ange," Booth admitted. "Any excuse for a party." Brennan nodded knowingly, remembering how Angela, Hodgins and the rest of the Jeffersonian team were waiting for Booth and Brennan to come home just after she gave birth to Christine.

"As much as I love Ange, I just want to spend the next few days with you and Christine, just the three of us. Is that greedy of me?"

"Not at all, Bones," Booth smiled as he pulled off of the main interstate and onto the exit ramp. "After all we've been through, I think we deserve a little 'us' time. After we arrested Pelant, Cullen gave me two week's paid leave and told me to, and this is a direct quote, 'take care of that doctor of yours'. And Cam told me to tell you that you were on paid leave as well, but your job at the Jeffersonian would still be waiting for you when you were ready to go back to work."

"I'm relieved to hear that," Brennan admitted. "After all we've been through, I just want to move forward with my life. To return to the Jeffersonian, to be your partner again. To rebuild our relationship. I do not know if it is completely possible, but I want the life I had back."

Booth gave Brennan a reassuring smile. "We'll get it back Bones. One day at a time."

Brennan leaned forward in her seat, placed her hand on Booth's shoulder and gently kissed his ear. "I love you, Booth," she whispered. "More than I ever thought possible."

Booth took his left hand off the steering wheel and touched Brennan's hand, allowing his touch to linger over her fingers. "And I love you, Bones," he affirmed. "There were times this past summer I was afraid I'd lost you for good."

"Never happen," Brennan promised.

* * *

One hour later, Booth and Brennan arrived at the Hampton Inn Suites. The maitre d was able to set them up with a spacious suite, and provided a wooden bassinet for Christine as well as a baby monitor linking the crib to the master bedroom. "What do you think?" Booth asked as he escorted his family to the suite, suitcases in his free hand as he opened the door. "I know it's not as swanky as the places you're used to on your book signing tours, but…"

"Compared to where I've had to sleep for the last few months," Brennan assured him as she pushed their daughter's stroller into the suite, "this is the Taj Mahal. Thank you, Booth." She kissed him quickly on the lips, before setting their take-out bag on the nearest table. "Would you mind if I took a brief shower?"

"Not at all. I'll put Chrissy in her sleeper and watch over her for you."

Brennan smiled at Booth as she grabbed her overnight bag and headed for the shower. Booth unstrapped Christine from her seat, and as Brennan closed the bathroom door she could hear him saying, "Let's get you cleaned up and dressed, Chrissy. I brought something special with me…"

The shower was a welcome luxury, one that she scarcely could afford to indulge in during her months on the run from the law. The pulsing hot-water jets kneaded the tension from her back and shoulders, allowing her to stretch more fully after hours on the road. Even the spacious back seat of Booth's Sequoia could be a trial over extended periods. As she lathered some of the hotel shampoo into her hair(not her favorite tea-tree oil formula, but it did have a pleasant citrus scent) she considered her plans for tonight. If anyone told her two years ago that she would do what she was planning, she would regard the speaker as insane. Even last year, when Booth predicted that someday she would do this, she answered, "That's ridiculous."

_Not so ridiculous after all,_ she conceded, a smile playing at her lips. _Once again I underestimate Booth's people-reading skills. Or perhaps just his skills for reading me._ Her course set, she rinsed her hair, turned off the shower, toweled herself dry, got dressed and headed for the living room.

She stopped just one step into the living room as her attention was fixed on the scene before her; Booth resting in an easy-chair, Christine lying on his lap, her little head resting drowsily against the crook of his left elbow, as he held a familiar and beloved book in his free hand and read to her in his gentlest voice; "And he put them away. Then he said, 'That is that.' And then he was gone with a tip of his hat. Then our mother came in and she said to us two, 'Did you have any fun? Tell me. What did you do?' And Sally and I did not know what to say. Should we tell her the things that went on there that day? Should we tell her about it? Now, what _should_ we do? Well...What would _you_ do if your mother asked _you_?"

Brennan smiled as she watched the care with which Booth placed their now-slumbering daughter in the bassinet and tucked her in. He stood next to Christine's bed, watching her sleep for a few seconds, when he noticed Brennan standing by the bassinet, a watery smile on her face.

"So how long were you standing there?" Booth asked, an amused half-smile playing at his lips.

"About the time the Cat in the Hat started cleaning up the house," Brennan admitted. "It was a wonderful performance."

"I thank you," Booth took a brief theatrical bow. "You should hear me do 'Where the Wild Things Are'. Not a dry eye in the house."

Brennan chuckled happily as she stepped around the bassinet and fell into the gravity of Booth's embrace, their lips meeting in a welcoming kiss, their arms fully encircling each other. Between kisses, Booth murmured, "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, Bones?"

"I am aware that I am in excellent physical shape," Brennan stated, "but surely 'beautiful' is an over-statement, isn't it?"

Booth looked at her knowingly; for all the pride she displayed in her intellectual abilities, there were still all those little insecurities lurking beneath the surface. "Bones, as an anthropologist, you of all people should know that beauty is subjective. Different cultures throughout history have had different standards of beauty, right?"

Brennan raised an eyebrow in thought for a second. "Perhaps an over-simplified phrasing of the concept, but not inaccurate."

"Right. So by my standards, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known. And there is nothing you can say or do that will convince me otherwise."

Brennan smiled warmly at Booth's praise. "In that case, by my admittedly very high standards, you are the most beautiful man that I have ever known."

"Yeah I know," he grinned, "I've got one helluva zygomatic arch."

"You don't even know what a zygomatic arch is."

"Oh yeah?" Booth traced the tip of his finger along Brennan's cheekbone, from just above the corner of her lip to her ear. "Over seven years as your partner, I had to pick some things up, right?"

"I'm glad to see that you've learned something from our association," she teased.

"You're definitely my favorite teacher," he replied warmly, leaning in for another quick kiss. "C'mon, Bones, let's eat before it gets cold."

They ate their dinner in relative silence, occasionally sharing meaningful glances and gentle touches. Booth allowed Brennan to make the selections, and admitted to himself that, while meatless, her choices were excellent. Eggplant parmigiana with mushroom risotto and orzo salad with grape tomatoes on the side. They also made a stop at a local grocery store for a six-pack of IPA to accompany their meal. She was somewhat disappointed that the small Italian place they had found near the Hampton Inn didn't have butternut squash ravioli, but Booth promised her that he would treat her to Lipari's tomorrow when they got to Washington DC. They were only three-to-four hours away, so they would have plenty of time for a late lunch or early dinner when they finally arrived.

Brennan couldn't help but steal continued glances at Booth. She knew what she wanted to say to him, she knew that she was right in her decision. She only hoped that she would have the courage to back her conviction. Washing down a bite of risotto with a sip of beer, she began; "Booth? There is something I wish to speak to you about."

"What is it, Bones?"

"I promised you last night," she began, her voice calm and level, "that I would not make any unilateral decisions regarding our family without consulting you first. That we would make such decisions together. And I intend to keep that promise. With that in mind, I believe it would be prudent for the two of us to take precautions to insure that we never find ourselves in a situation similar to the ordeal Pelant forced us into."

"We don't have to worry about Pelant, Bones," Booth assured her. "Judge Julian told me that they have an airtight case against him. He's out of our lives for good."

"That is true," she nodded. "But as I have observed before, there is no such thing as a singular event. Our careers are difficult, Booth, and at times dangerous. And it's not as though Pelant was the first major threat we've faced together. Epps, Gormogon, Gravedigger, Broadsky. There will be other threats that we must face together, so long as we are partners. And especially with Christine as a factor in our lives, we should take steps to insure that she is protected."

Booth paused to digest Brennan's words for a moment. "You're absolutely right."

"I frequently am."

Booth snorted humorously. "Actually, I was thinking along similar lines. Just after we arrested Pelant, Cullen told me that he was considering me for Hacker's position. It'd be more of a desk job, with a big bump in my salary."

"Would that mean an end to our professional partnership?" she asked worriedly.

"No way, honey," Booth promised. "I'd still be the main liaison officer to the Jeffersonian and you and I would still be working cases together, but I just wouldn't be in the field as much. Some cases I might delegate the heavy-lifting if necessary. But you and me, we're a team. Always will be."

Brennan found herself smiling at Booth's reassurances. "Thank you. But perhaps we should include the rest of the Medico-Legal team in any discussions, as your promotion would affect how they do their work as well."

"Yeah, good call," Booth admitted. "Once we're back on duty, we'll discuss it with them."

Brennan nodded. "I also have a couple of suggestions regarding safeguarding our family. First, something we probably should have done sooner, we should sit down with a lawyer and set up legal documents establishing a chain of custody for Christine. If anything should happen to either or both of us."

"Like Angela and Jack?" Booth suggested.

"Exactly, or Jared and Padme. Someone whom we know we can trust with Christine's guardianship."

"As much as I love my brother," Booth admitted, "I trust Ange and Jack better as parents. They've been doing a great job with Michael. But Jared and Padme would probably be good to Christine as well."

"Agreed. And in the Hodgins' favor, Jack's personal fortune would insure that Christine would not want for anything."

Booth reached across the table and took her hand. "You've thought a lot about this, haven't you?"

"I have, Booth," she admitted. "Weeks on end with only Christine for company tended to lead to me thinking a great deal."

Booth gave her an understanding look, and squeezed her hand lightly before letting go. "Okay, so we can hash out the details when we get back to DC," Booth suggested. "You said you had another suggestion as well?"

"I did say that, and I do," Brennan answered. Taking another sip of beer for courage, she spoke; "You and I should get married."

Booth stopped suddenly and found himself staring at her, unable to speak or even move his face. After a few seconds, Brennan admonished him. "Don't look so surprised, Booth. You're the one who predicted that I would someday ask you."

"I did," he said. "And you thought it was ridiculous at the time Uh, may I ask what changed your mind?"

"I realized after some thought that marriage between us would provide certain benefits. For one, if either of us were injured, incapacitated or killed, a legal bond would provide more solid rights of custody over Christine. Also, if either one of us were forced to stand trial for any crime, the other spouse could not be compelled to testify, due to spousal privilege."

"Rational, as always," Booth muttered tonelessly, turning back toward his plate.

Even with her self-admitted lack of social skills, Brennan could tell that Booth was somewhat disappointed in her reasoning. "Booth," she said, "those were only the pragmatic reasons why I want to marry you. There is another reason. Booth, I cannot compartmentalize you."

Booth turned toward Brennan, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"For the last eighty-five days," she continued, "I concentrated on keeping Christine safe. On staying 'off the grid' as Dad would say. During those times, I could concentrate on what needed to be done, and compartmentalize everything else. But in the evenings, when I would lie awake in bed, I would find my thoughts turning to you. I could imagine you, fearful for our safety, angry at me for deserting you, and I felt this great pressure in my chest. The most terrible pain I had ever experienced. My only point of reference for such an experience was when I first realized my feelings for you, only to see you with Hannah. But this pressure was far greater." She stopped for a second and drank another swallow of pale ale. Booth sat beside her without speaking, knowing that his partner needed to express her feelings in her own time.

"I remember chiding you once regarding your use of the term 'heart break', because the heart is a muscle, not a bone. I think I understand that phrase now, at least a possible interpretation. My heart—my metaphorical heart, at any rate, was broken. Not like a bone or a china cup, but like a mechanism. A broken watch or clock. Like a broken watch, I simply could not function properly. During those nights alone, especially during these last few weeks, I finally began to understand. I had always succeeded in compartmentalizing every aspect of my life. My job at the Jeffersonian, my career as an author, our partnership, my relationships with Angela, Hodgins, Sweets, my father, you. But that changed over these last two years...I think it started that night after we were stuck in the elevator. When we were burning those notes. After nearly losing the friendship you and I had built together, we were finally beginning to rebuild. When we first moved in together after we conceived Christine, you and the family we were creating had increasingly become the forefront of my thoughts. I had come to depend on you for so much; for your insight in the field, for emotional well-being, for companionship."

Her voice began to falter somewhat, forcing her to inhale deeply before she continued; "I realized the truth when we were apart. You were not something for me to compartmentalize. You had become part of the framework of my being. The bones of my life, if you will pardon the metaphor. I've never been in love before, and initially I've found the experience to be simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying. I was no longer truly independent and for a moment, I'll admit, that frightened me. But in the end, all that mattered to me was how much I was missing you, missing that connection we had forged, during our time apart."

"I was missing you too, Bones," Booth assured her, stroking her hair. "You and Christine both, every minute. But that's what happens when you fall in love. Being in love can be scary, but at the same time it's the most wonderful thing that can happen to two people. You and I have become interdependent of each other. That doesn't mean losing yourself, just becoming part of something greater."

"I never want to be apart from you again, Booth," her voice hitched slightly as she spoke. "I still remember when you first told me how you wanted to spend the next thirty or forty or fifty years of your life with me, and how I had let my own fears cloud my desires that night." She turned her face toward Booth, clear-eyed and certain. "I cannot promise you thirty or forty or fifty years, Booth. I simply do not know if either of us has that time. It is simply a fact that no one can predict the future with absolute certainty. But I can promise you this; whatever time I have in this world, I want to spend it with you. As your partner, as your friend, as your lover. As your wife.

"Seeley Joseph Booth, will you marry me?"

Booth took Brennan in his arms and kissed her passionately on the lips. Reluctantly Brennan pushed him away but still remained in his arms. "Your reaction is encouraging," she said breathlessly, "but I'm afraid that I will require a verbal response..."

"Yes, Bones," Booth declared, half-laughing, half-growling. "Yes!" And he reached for her again.

* * *

24 hours later:

She stood over her daughter's crib, watching Christine sleep. Over the crib an electric mobile, constructed and installed by Booth's son Parker, was rotating quietly, photos of Christine's family orbiting over her head.

They were home. And she had no intention of being anywhere else for a very long time.

The remaining drive to DC was subdued, as Booth and Brennan quietly accepted the enormity of the previous night. They were engaged. Soon, they would be married. Brennan repeatedly thought back to the beginnings of her partnership with Booth, and the long, often difficult path their lives had taken to this moment. Ten years ago, she had declared repeatedly and loudly that she simply did not believe in monogamy. And now she had made a commitment to spend the rest of her life with one man.

She felt strong familiar arms encircling her waist and leaned into them happily. "Welcome home, Bones," Booth whispered in her ear.

"Thanks for having me back," Brennan purred as she leaned into Booth's strong chest. Glancing up toward the mobile she commented, "You know, from an objective viewpoint, that mobile is an impressive feat of engineering. Parker is quite talented."

"Y'think so?"

"He really is," Brennan answered. "The Jeffersonian has some summer internship programs for pre-teens. Rather like a summer camp environment. I would be happy to sponsor him, if you think he'd be interested."

Booth shrugged his shoulders. "Next time he and Rebecca are in town, we can discuss it with them. I think he'll be thrilled." He kissed the back of her neck. "He idolizes you, y'know."

"He's a wonderful child." Turning in Brennan's embrace, she added, "You should be very proud of him."

"Yeah, I am," Booth agreed. "Just like I'm proud of you and Christine. I love you, Temperance Brennan."

"And I love you, Seeley Booth." Glancing out of the window, she added, "And you remembered the cherry-blossom tree."

"Yeah, Wendell helped me plant it a few days ago. Just before I got that call from Holmes."

"Thank you," she murmured, overcome by her emotions. "Next spring that tree will look spectacular."

"Yeah," Booth agreed. "Thought you'd approve." They remained in the nursery, their arms wrapped around each others' waists, simply content to remain in that moment for awhile longer.

"Booth," Brennan commented as they eventually left their slumbering daughter, "we may have some issues with setting the date. Shortly after we got back, I took the liberty of checking my voice mail, and there were nearly a hundred messages."

"Well, it's been nearly three months, Bones."

"They were all dated over the last forty-eight hours," Brennan replied. "Since Cullen's press conference, when he publicly exonerated me." Booth pursed his lips in understanding. "A few of them were from my publisher, several from Cam, Angela and other members of the Medico-Legal lab, but the majority of them were reporters wanting a statement. I spoke with my publisher and she recommended that I give a press conference in the next few days, just to get it over with, but you can see the potential problem."

"Gotcha," Booth commented as they entered the living room. "With you being a big name in mystery writing, not to mention the Pelant case being so high-profile, anywhere we want to have the wedding, the media will turn it into a full-on circus."

Brennan looked at Booth quizzically. "I trust that you mean that metaphorically."

"Oh no," Booth answered. "Literally. They'll have tents up on the lawn, clowns, tumblers, dancing bears—"

"Oh stop," Brennan quipped, lightly slapping Booth's chest. "I want our wedding to be an intimate event, just friends and family. I know that you would prefer a church service, and I would have no objections to that, but..."

"But if we announce a date with the local church," Booth nodded, then bring on the dancing bears. Look, as long as we're doing this together, I don't care where we get married." Looking around the room, he added, "Whaddya think? Judge Caroline over there," he pointed to the fireplace, "handling the justice-of-the-peace honors, the congregation over here in the living room? You can come down the stairs over there, maybe have one or two musicians, nothing to big."

"Maybe Mr. Gibbons would provide the music."

"Y'mean Ange's dad? Yeah, maybe. And we can get Gordon-Gordon to cater. Who do you see us inviting?"

"Well," she thought for a moment, "Angela as my bridesmaid, I would guess you would want Jared as your best man, he'll bring Padme, then Sweets, Daisy I guess," she scowled lightly at the thought, then continued; "Hodgins, Mr. Bray, Cam—is Michelle still seeing Mr. Abernathy?"

"I think so," Booth answered. "Pops, of course, and Parker and Becca. Caroline, Gordon-Gordon and Ange's dad, as we said."

"A small intimate gathering," Brennan nodded in approval.

"Just like we'd invite for Christmas dinner, wouldn't you say?"

"What are you suggesting, Booth?" Brennan crooked an eyebrow in curiosity.

"We invite everyone over for Christmas. It's Chrissy's first Christmas, naturally we'll want out extended family over. Then, after dinner, we announce, 'Oh, stick around, we're gonna get married in the living room in half-an-hour.' No press, no problems."

Brennan considered Booth's suggestion for a moment. "We'd have to make advance arrangements with Caroline, Mr. Gibbons and Gordon-Gordon. But with only those three knowing—"

"Four, I'd like Parker as my ring-bearer."

"Fair enough. But with only three adults and one child in the hoop—"

"Loop, Bones, in the loop," he corrected her automatically, smiling slightly.

"Loop, thank you," Brennan mock-scowled at him. "With only those four knowing, there's significantly less chance of the press learning our plans, until long after the ceremony. An excellent suggestion."

"Hey," Booth smiled, tapping his right temple. "There's more going on up here than a killer zygomatic arch."

"Oh shut up and kiss me," Brennan laughed throatily, leaning forward and pressing her mouth to his.

After a few seconds, she backed away and stepped out of Booth's arms. "Just a moment, if I may," she smiled serenely at him as she approached the stereo system. Pulling out a favorite CD, she placed the disc in the player and selected a specific song. The smoky-sweet voice of Sarah McLachlan poured out of the speakers.

_Every time I look at you the world just melts away.__  
__All my troubles, all my fears dissolve in your affections,__  
__You've seen me at my weakest but you take me as I am,__  
__And when I fall you offer me a softer place to land._

She extended her arm toward Booth and summoned him with her smile. "Dance with me." Booth crossed the floor to join his fiance, his arms around her waist, as they swayed gently to the music. They held each other, slowly moving across the floor, lost in their dance. Brennan's head instinctively found its way to the crook of Booth's shoulder, and Booth placed his hand on the back of her head, stroking her hair.

_You stay the course, you hold the line, you keep it all together,  
You're the one true thing I know I can believe in.  
You're all the things that I desire, you save me, you complete me,  
You're the one true thing I know I can believe in._

Neither of them could claim to a happy childhood experience. Brennan being shuttled from one foster-home to another, Booth being beaten by his drunkard father until his grandfather intervened and took custody. For much of his adult life, Booth feared that he would never find the love of his life. For much of her adult life, Brennan scoffed at the notion of romantic love altogether.

_I get mad so easy but you give me room to breathe,  
No matter what I say or do 'cause you're too good to fight about it.  
Even when I have to push just to see how far you'll go,  
You wont stoop down to battle but you never turn to go._

Now, this moment, none of that mattered. In each other, they had found the happiness they despaired they would never experience. In each other they found the parts of their lives that were missing.

_You stay the course, you hold the line, you keep it all together,  
You're the one true thing I know I can believe in.  
You're all the things that I desire, you save me, you complete me,  
You're the one true thing I know I can believe in._

In each other, they had found home.


End file.
